


An Inducement to Marry

by MrsCaulfield



Series: If i loved you less... (ineffables in the regency) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lots of mentions of books, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Angst, No homophobia this is straight up fantasy, Slow Burn, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: Aziraphale Fell did not dream of much beyond his contented life as the owner of a small bookshop in Tadfield. In contrast, all his neighbours seemed to be under the impression that the famously rakish Mr Anthony Crowley, who had for the past couple of years been a repeated visitor of his shop, quite fancied him. Preposterous, of course. People like Crowley did not enter into relations with people like Aziraphale.But when news breaks out that Crowley is being pressured into marriage by his mother, Crowley comes to him with a peculiar request, leaving Aziraphale to reconsider all the notions he'd previously believed regarding the nature of Crowley's feelings, as well as those of his own.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: If i loved you less... (ineffables in the regency) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096649
Comments: 397
Kudos: 370





	1. Dangling

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with another Regency era AU that I hope some of you will enjoy! A few notes before I begin
> 
> -If you've read my previous regency fic 'Circumstances of Distinction', this runs along a similar vein in which Regency social customs are observed, but there is a distinct lack of sexism and homophobia, so a fantasy universe basically
> 
> -The events in this fic are greatly inspired by Regency era occupations and customs BUT with a few twists. If there are departures from historical accuracy, it's either I've chosen to bend them a little to fit with the non sexist/non homophobic fantasy setting OR I simply made a mistake (because as much as I love Regency culture, I can't claim 100% perfect knowledge of it, and until now I'm still finding stuff that I previously thought to be correct that are actually wrong)
> 
> -In this fic, the term 'gentleman' is used as a gender neutral term. But, much like its usage from the Georgian-Regency periods, it is used to refer to the upper social classes whose income came mainly from the land that they owned. In a Regency setting, Aziraphale, as a bookshop owner, owned his living from an actual profession, and would therefore not be considered 'genteel'. This is a point that will be raised repeatedly and drive much of Aziraphale's internal conflict for much of the plot
> 
> -I've always been intrigued since Neil mentioned that Aziraphale would be a fan of Georgette Heyer's books, so in here I made an attempt at a style similar to hers. There's a few differences from the Jane Austen style I tried to mimic in 'Circumstances', namely the very dialogue-heavy nature of her works, as well as the gratuitous use of Regency slang and iconic, often humorous, banter between the lead couple. So yeah, that's kind of the spirit I went with in this fic since the plot is of a more comedic nature when compared to the more sombre 'Circumstances'.
> 
> That's it for now. I hope, whether you're into regency stories or not, that you find something to enjoy in this!
> 
> As always, thanks to fellow Austen stannie Stef (@flamingbentley) for beta-ing this and for being almost as invested in Regency ineffables as I am haha ily!

_“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! So charming as you are!”_

_Emma laughed, and replied,_

_“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least…”_

_“Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it.”_

_“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted;... and I do not wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted.”_

**_-Jane Austen, Emma (Vol 1 Ch. X)_**

________

*******

No one could have been deemed mistaken in declaring the idyllic borough of Tadfield to be among the best and most picturesque in the kingdom. For though there could be a variety of notions on the matter, doubtlessly subject to one's individual preferences of what qualities may constitute a 'beauty', the perfection of Tadfield was unanimous. For where else could there be rolling hills that were neither too flat so as to fade lamely into the horizon, nor too steep so as to strain the most determined stallions and hinder ease of transport? Where else could there be pure streams, traversing meadows and clearings, through which rambunctious schoolchildren may explore to their heart's content? Where else could there be a community so in unison that hardly an aberration occurred in a year to bother the constables? And in addition, Tadfield united the best of these qualities under good weather - the kind that was, without fail, perfect for the time of year.

The ins and outs and all arounds of Tadfield thrummed with beauty, effectively stalling even the most ignorant of visitors. It could not be denied. But though the average outsider might think that the pinnacle of beauty in Tadfield prevailed in its vibrant foliage, or perhaps in the grand edifices of the neighbouring estates, those whose entire lives had been pinned to this little-known paradise were in agreement that such perfection could be found inside one of the cottages of Hog's Lane - that cottage which housed a charming old bookshop.

Only this small bookshop was not particularly very old. It had perhaps seen the passage of merely forty years, and in so existing had been passed down the hands of only two owners - a father and his son. These were, however, not the same owners that possessed the very land where it stood, which belonged to a Mr Sandalphon - and a long line of Mr Sandalphons before him. But a simple leasehold would not deter the villagers from readily agreeing that the charming old bookshop, whose facade had been always near-perfection, belonged to the equally charming and near-perfect Mr Aziraphale Fell.

Mr Fell was by no means a miracle-worker, and no one had ever laid him charge to be anything other than human. There was a certain enchantment about him, however, that lingered in the bookshop airs and remained still as a settled feeling in one's chest for around an hour after departing his premises. Many a time there was someone who got themselves into a scrape, varying in degree from trivial to most scrupulous, and a visit to the old bookshop had been all the fix that was needed. The enchantment, they believed, hung around Mr Fell's pleasing aura, in the minute furrow between his brows and the stretch of his lips into the widest of smiles, and that look sent towards a person's way would make all right as rain.

It was no wonder that he had gotten so many admirers all around. It was not just the enchantment about him which got everyone's attention, though certainly that played a large part. However unfairly it could be noted, Mr Fell was also a right _stunner,_ with eyes bright as Tadfield's perfect summer skies and hair soft as its perfect winter's snow. His countenance was strong. He had a stable, stocky build blanketed by the comfortable, if a bit old-fashioned, textiles of his clothing. He could command a room and set it in a mood, and usually did so by easing the minds of all fretting worriers who entered his bookshop. His manners were always correct, and often above what was expected for a man of his working-class rank and occupation. In spite of this, he never sought to intimidate. He was a friend to all, and a proper challenge to his suitors, for despite his overly exerted kindness he had never seemed to take a special interest in anyone. A perfectly pleasing man, he was, though one who lived only with his mind in his books even when his hands were completely devoid of them. 

But if there was to be one person whom Mr Fell seemed to regard above all others, it would have been the gentleman currently holding his attentions at the register, speaking coolly as he slid a crimson leather-bound book over to the owner. This special regard was not borne out of natural admiration, but out of the persistence of a two-year long consistent patronage which had fostered a sort of, for lack of a better word, friendship. Mr Fell certainly did not _mind_ Mr Anthony Crowley's lingering presence, and if one were to catch him on a good day he might even consider him an _agreeable_ friend. It was only that he had a few reservations about Mr Crowley's excessive lifestyle, though he owned he was in no position to moralize.

Mr Anthony Crowley was what the old-fashioned mothers would call a _rake._ The grandson of an earl, he was a man of genteel birth and respectable disposition, with considerable property to inherit upon the demise of his mother Lady Eliza Crowley. He led the life of a typical mollycoddled only child of fortune, hopping from one friend's estate to the other and getting about the wiliest of activities. On the few months that he was home in Tadfield, his main objective in venturing to Mr Fell's bookshop was to obtain a book that he may impart on his current flirt, and in a few week's time he would come back in request of another, for _another_ flirt, and such was the foundation which built the transactions between Mr Crowley and Mr Fell.

"Would that be all, sir?" Aziraphale asked from across the register as he took the notes from his customer, heart partially sunk with having to part with his final copy of Sir Walter Scott's _The Lay of the Last Minstrel._ "Would you not wish to be presented with a few other options, just in case this one won't do?"

A lazy grin was what the customer answered with, and he took the book carefully in his smoothly gloved hands. "Not necessary. I have full confidence in your taste and judgement."

Aziraphale chuckled lightly at the praise, though his worry was not eased. "You must allow for failures in my judgement, dear boy. I have never met this paramour of yours and can be wrong in my assessment of what they might like."

"I assure you, it cannot be. You have never failed me before. In all your recommendations." At Aziraphale's disbelieving look, he added: "And if you mean to protest that, I prefer to halt you now, for I have better ways to occupy myself than arguing with a shopkeeper. You are perfect, Aziraphale."

"Then I suppose I had better not detain you," replied he with a polite air. "Where will you be off to now? With how you've been going around I can only assume tomorrow you'd be in Edinburgh, or perhaps on the far side of the Continent."

"Nothing so drastic. I'll be six weeks in Somerset, return straight here after, I imagine. Whatever comes after that, though, who knows?" With a tip of his hat and a parting glance, Mr Crowley took his leave, striding out the bookshop doors with a distinct saunter that would have betrayed his identity from over a ten-mile distance.

A beautiful dark-haired maiden walked up to take the place of Mr Crowley's vacated spot. She sent a cheeky smile down Aziraphale’s way, leaning over the counter. "Did you have to send him away so soon? I feel he might have made another purchase."

Miss Anathema Device had been Aziraphale's assistant for over six years, and during that time he had certainly come to rely on her. She was of humble birth, but alarmingly quick-witted, and with just enough flair for the odd and the occult that she could readily dismiss Aziraphale's different, though equally intense, oddities. She also had a penchant for getting into Aziraphale's personal affairs, though he did allow her to do so, and did not mind it most of the time, for she was above all a trustworthy character, and he knew that he could confide with her.

"Oh no, Anathema. Mr Crowley always looks as if he means to stay for longer than he should. He may be a loyal patron, but he does not come here to appreciate the books."

"Don't I know that already," muttered the assistant under her breath.

"He is the most peculiar coxcomb I have ever met. Though, I suppose, he is generally harmless."

"I think you are being too severe on him. He is generally liked in the village, and has never done anything to displease us. And you must own that his consistent patronage is very good business."

"Well of course it is good business, but at what cost? What he buys the books _for_ weighs heavily on my conscience!"

Anathema threw him an arch, knowing look. "Because he purchases the books for others, rather than enjoying them himself?"

"Because he uses them as a tool for his... his seductive wiles! And I am an unwilling accomplice. I am aiding his designs on innocent souls," he trailed off glumly.

"Sir, I know you to be dense at times, but has it never occurred to you that the reason for his returning time and time again is that the object of his _designs_ resides _here?"_

The preposterous remark had Aziraphale rooted to his spot, a furrow rapidly forming between his brows. At Anathema's prodding look, his frown gave way to a round of hearty laughter.

"However did you get this ridiculous notion in your head, my child?"

"It cannot be that ridiculous when all the other shopkeepers in the block have been saying the same thing."

A flush rose to Aziraphale's cheeks. Surely the other residents of Hog's Lane could not have come to the _same_ conclusion? For though Aziraphale dearly loved them, he had never known them capable of agreeing on anything.

"You are only making your case less believable here."

"Just yesterday I heard Madame Tracy in raptures over _'charming and handsome Mr Anthony Crowley! No one with airs so pleasing and manners so refined. Only it is a pity he has been dangling after Mr Fell for over a year now'!"_

"This is the first I've ever heard of this." Aziraphale spoke rationally, though his rapidly colouring face betrayed a level of fluster he would never own to. "I am not _dangling_ Mr Crowley, and I am even more certain he does not mean to dangle after anyone. You do remember the books."

Anathema scoffed in reply. "I do, and to be honest, I would not be surprised to learn that he only means to obtain your recommendations as a guise to get to know you better. And the books remain kept in a private corner of his study where he looks upon them like the lovesick fool that he secretly is."

Aziraphale knew not what to make of this conjecture. For one thing, it was still too ridiculous for him to take seriously. Anthony Crowley to dangle after him? The idea was laughable. Many a beautiful rose and stunning bloke had already clung to his arm at one point or another, and his gallivanting across the country meant that he kept a company from which he may choose amongst the most eligible of partners. Aziraphale could think of no reason why he would take a keen interest in the local shopkeeper.

Anathema was only young and fanciful, and his responsibility as the senior between them called out to set her mind to rights.

"My child, it seems very unlikely that he should settle upon an attachment of that significance. And even if he were to do it, I should be the last person he would fix on." With a graver look, he added: "People who are as well-bred, fortunate, and handsome as Mr Anthony Crowley would prefer a partner who is younger, and perhaps a great deal nearer gentility."

"Younger?" Exclaimed Anathema, not at all sold on Aziraphale's attempt to set back her argument. "You are not eight months older than he is! Heck, you are not five years older than I am! Stop speaking to me as though you're some sort of aged dowager."

"I do no such thing," he replied meekly.

"And as for the other part, despite your occupation no one has ever questioned your genteel character. You dress and carry yourself far better than half the gentry. In fact, by looks alone there is not much disparity between you and Mr Crowley. Have you really not considered the match that all of Hog's Lane has been invested in for the past year?"

"I have not and that is only because the matter is not worth considering. Mr Crowley never showed any significant partiality for me and I do beg you all to quit the matter. Think how embarrassing it would be if he were to get wind of it!"

"You horrid man." Anathema laid an exaggerated hand to her forehead, crying dramatically. "Poor Mr Crowley, doomed to dangle for at least a year more!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "That _poor Mr Crowley_ you describe drove off the front pavement in a glossy perch-phaeton. I am sure he will make a sound recovery."

  
  


*******

Everyone in Tadfield relied on some sort of routine, and however varied that may be from person to person, residents found a way still to mingle every so often. As the rolling hills of the neighbouring family estates were generally accessible only under certain occasions, it was to the cottage-shops of Hog's Lane where people of all backgrounds united. Aziraphale knew the cottages, the shopkeepers, and their families as though they were part and parcel of his body - just as they knew him. His own routine consisted of daily constitutionals around the block, checking in with his neighbours before heading off to the town market. After that, he would open his shop, welcome any person in its warm premises, and occupy himself with the daily affairs of running such a business.

That was the routine which held him steady over the passing of the next several weeks which were, he would own, dreadfully uneventful.

One sunny afternoon found him and Anathema over at Madame Tracy's haberdashery, a small place which everyone knew not to be limited to just selling ribbons. The shop also served as a linen drapery and, on certain days of the week, a mediocre-grade millinery. Once it had served as the town apothecary - until the constables were made aware that the coveted laudanum being sold from a discreet backroom contained nothing but brandy and some used tea leaves, by which time they were finally compelled to shut it down.

But Madame Tracy's shop served its main purpose on all days of the week - that of being the axle on which Tadfield's wheels of gossip spun about. The place was a hub for the diffusion of tales and rumours, and should people be disinclined to reveal any tales of value, Madame Tracy had her own way of eliciting them herself.

As such, Aziraphale should not have been surprised by her bold remark upon his approach to the register while he laid down his purchase of pale silk ribbons and a pair of cotton gloves. 

"What a dreary business it is that your handsome beau should be gone for so long, Mr Fell! I hope that all is well on your end. It gets easier to reel them in once you've been married, trust me on that." She sent him a cheeky wink and a red-lipped smile.

Aziraphale's response was a long sigh. "Mr Crowley's affairs are none of my business, Madame. I hardly know what he gets up to when he is away, and indeed I have no right to know. You really must be rid of this bag of moonshine before it gets out of hand."

"Pity!" She frowned and looked pointedly at Anathema, who shot the same look back at her. Both looks which passed beneath Aziraphale's notice. "You would make such a handsome couple, you know."

Aziraphale flustered for a bit, then recollected himself. "I'm at a loss as to what gave you the idea that a man of Mr Crowley's station will regard me as anything other than the town bookseller."

"What a hoax you are, Mr Fell. _Cheeky little hoax,"_ replied Madame Tracy with a click of her tongue. "As if you are not aware of the long line of suitors you have propelled across the block, though to be sure you will not give your hand to anyone unless you give your heart along with it."

The declaration brought a smile to his face. "And for that reason I shall grow to be a spinster."

"But you must at least talk to Mr Crowley about this," she replied tenderly, imploring him to be serious. "He has been after you for quite some time. A clear answer is what he needs, so that he may be allowed to move on."

Aziraphale blushed fully. Was that really what Mr Crowley had been doing all this time? Aziraphale had no basis on which to form the answer, for though he had admirers, none had been so bold as to properly _court_ him - he was usually wary of letting anyone get close. But Mr Crowley had crept his way into him slowly yet decisively, with his charming grins and odd requests, never settling for Anathema's assistance, insisting each time that _Aziraphale_ would tend to him. Mr Crowley was clever and interesting, his wit at par with Aziraphale's, and they would spark the oddest arguments. He was mighty funny as well. Aziraphale had never laughed so much around the presence of anyone else.

And to be sure, Mr Crowley was also frighteningly handsome. A statuesque build of sharp shoulders and long, finely-shaped legs hugged by skintight pantaloons (because he would own that he _had_ been looking). Aziraphale had had some time since his departure to Somerset to turn the matter over and over in his head and after much consideration, he had come to the conclusion that there might be some merit to the thought of Mr Crowley courting him, and if he were, found that he did not so much mind being the object of his attentions.

His train of thought was interrupted by the approach of a young man, his wide eyes resting solely on Anathema - the other 'beauty' of the village aside from himself. At Anathema's sharp, uninviting stare, he shook lightly and handed her an envelope, muttering a few weak phrases about how he had received Anathema's mail by mistake from the town inn and thought it incumbent upon him to deliver it personally. Anathema took the letter and promptly thanked him. 

Without waiting a moment longer, Anathema tore off the seal and skimmed the contents. Aziraphale watched her eyes frantically scanning the parchment, her expression shifting wildly the longer she kept reading.

"Is everything all right, my child?"

Anathema pressed the letter to her chest, staring at him. "It is from my great-aunt Agnes in London."

"I trust all is well? Is she in bad health? Will you be needing to go to her yourself?" Aziraphale knew very little about this relation of Anathema's except that she was three-and-seventy, had the same proclivity for the occult as Anathema, and that she maintained her own collection at a bookshop in Soho.

"She tells me about the book."

Aziraphale's breathing stopped. "Surely you don't mean... _the_ book?"

She nodded. "The sale did not push through. The buyer suffered an apoplexy before they could meet."

"Oh. I am sorry to hear it," he remarked in a strained tone.

"Mr Fell, did you not hear what I said? The book is still in her hands. You should offer for it!"

The idea had already crossed his mind - of course it had. Agnes Nutter's book was all Aziraphale had been thinking of since he had taken over his father's bookshop, only he hadn't had the means of offering a fair price for such a valuable item. But as soon as the idea came to him, he dismissed it readily. It was unlikely that he could negotiate for the book by written correspondence, and while he might now be able to offer a considerable sum for the book itself, the cost of traveling to and lodging in London for an indefinite length of time would quite put him out of his affairs. No. It did not matter how badly he wanted _the_ book. Making an attempt to purchase it was, regrettably, still out of the question.

It was at this point that two newcomers entered the shop. Mrs Trent and Mrs Harley were two of Tadfield's renowned chattering mothers. Upon their entry, they hastily picked out some bonnet trimmings and headed straight over to Madame Tracy, making it clear which of her services they were really after.

"Madame!" exclaimed Mrs Harley. "I've just come into possession of the most shocking news!" 

Madame Tracy kept her face level as she organised a few notes into her till. "Oh, bother. You say that at least once a sennight." 

"But you will not believe it now! It is truly, truly shocking."

Aziraphale and Anathema were both considering whether they were needed for this conversation, and he was just about to suggest that they leave when Mrs Harley seized his wrist and said hurriedly: "You must stay for this. It is about Mr Crowley!"

Despite himself, his heartbeat picked up its pace. He did not want to be privy to dubious rumours about Mr Crowley's affairs, though to leave now when he had been personally implored to stay would be a great offence, however trivial was the reason for it. He stood his ground.

"Mrs Harley, before you share this with us, I do hope you have considered whether there is truth to it. It would not do to be spreading falsehoods against our neighbours."

"It is true, Mr Fell! You know my son. My son, Bartholomew, who is a footman at their estate. Apparently, Lady Eliza has put her foot down against Mr Crowley's fleeting dalliances, and had set a decree on him to marry - _immediately!"_

Madame Tracy's eyes flicked over to Aziraphale, briefly, before turning back to her. "Surely there must be a mistake."

"No, no. It is true. Lady Eliza will settle upon him half her property on the event of his marriage with an _eligible parti,_ and he has set off to Somerset so that he may proceed with courtship and a proposal!"

"And he is returning now," piped in Mrs Trent, a look of despair over her face. "He will be here tomorrow. With his betrothed, we expect."

A sinking feeling formed in Aziraphale's gut. "And-and you are certain about this?"

The two chattering mothers turned to face him, burning with sympathy.

It was Mrs Harley who spoke consolingly. "Oh, Mr Fell. You must know, we had always wished it to be you. We were certain he meant to be pursuing you! We are so very sorry to be the bearers of this news."

For a moment, no one spoke. Aziraphale blinked rapidly and plastered a smile on his face.

"Surely it is of no consequence to me," he said lightly, edging his way towards the door and willing for Anathema to follow. "I did not hope, or at least I never presumed, that he would make me an offer. Please do not blame him for any of this. He never once made an advance towards me, and indeed he has no reason to."

Anathema's hand latched onto his elbow. "Mr Fell?"

Aziraphale patted her hand, securing it around his arm. "Shall we go, my child? The shop is waiting."

Madame Tracy regarded him with a fond, slightly sad look. "Do come by for lunch tomorrow, Mr Fell."

"Of course." With a smile now dimmer than it had been initially, he and Anathema exited the haberdashery. To Aziraphale's relief, neither of them made any attempt to talk until they reached the bookshop.

  
  


*******


	2. The Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has returned! And he has a request to make.

Though he was a dedicated bookseller, Aziraphale would not be one to deny that there were not many people willing to _purchase_ books, especially so in a remote countryside village. The average novel did not come cheap, and most would settle for borrowing a copy rather than purchasing one. To own books seemed more like a luxury, one that was confined only to those families with great means. 

Aziraphale had been lucky enough to grow up surrounded by his father's great and varied collection. He was a voracious reader from childhood, and even when he did not pick novels and reference texts from his father's shop, he still listened to tales told to him by his mother. It was not so much the books and pages which mattered, but the _stories._ Whether they were the most trivial of the latest novels or the most revered nonfiction, each book had a story to tell. Not many were lucky enough to hear it, however. 

In the old days, stories were passed on orally. Even with the invention of writing, and preservation of history having become more exact, many still chose to sit around with companions to retell a story that had already been read. Thus, reading could be both a solitary and community affair, with books passed from hand to hand much like stories were told from one mouth to another. It was for this reason that Aziraphale's chief objective was to ensure that his books _lasted,_ with the expectation that the stories they told would be passed on for generations to come. He had taught himself the craft of restoring books and added that service to his shop. He'd serviced many clients in and out of Tadfield, and it constantly brought him the greatest satisfaction without fail. 

But even those who were not in possession of heirlooms in need of restoration could benefit from his small, yet capable, circulating library. For a small monthly subscription, anyone could have access to Aziraphale's collection of prints and novels. Though they were about a year out of date, many found joy in it, as it made reading more accessible to people from all walks of life.

Aziraphale had been working himself into a tizzy over the inventory and restocking of his circulating library for the past five-and-a-half hours, his lips drawn in concentration while he turned away from the rest of the world.

It was a slow day for the shop, and Anathema had been observing her boss for quite some time now. He seemed to hold himself strangely today, his hands trembling as they glossed over the cracked spines of his collection. He also refused to talk to Anathema in so many words, all but appearing like a recluse—so far from the brightly beaming Mr Fell whose smile the entirety of Tadfield considered a lucky charm.

Cautiously, she approached him and cleared her throat. "Mr Fell, about what happened yesterday, I think I should apologise."

Aziraphale briefly turned to look at her. "Whatever for, dear?"

"You just look rather... off today. And I cannot help thinking that it may have something to do with Mr Crowley's engagement. If so, I'm responsible. I should never have put the idea in your head in the first place."

Aziraphale scoffed. "Oh no, Anathema, surely you're not still on about that. I told you I am all right. It does not signify now." He brought the books before him on the shelf into perfect alignment and wiped away the dust from the wooden surface.

"Well, if you say it is so." Anathema was not convinced, but she thought it best to change the subject. "Have you thought about going to London for aunt Agnes's book?"

"Yes, indeed, I have given it great thought." Aziraphale walked across the room to his desk, bringing out a piece of parchment which was heavily scrawled over with writing. "Here I calculated the expenses of a London trip."

Anathema's brows shot up to her hairline upon closely inspecting the item. "Wow. That is thorough," she remarked with a low whistle.

"I wanted to be sure I did not miss anything," justified Aziraphale. "But I'm still unsure if it can be done. If I am to go, I will have to ride the stage, and that passes by Tadfield only once a week, which means—"

He was halted by the sound of the bell above the entrance, signaling the entry of two schoolboys—Adam and Wensleydale. They looked about the shop in search of Anathema, and when at last they found her, ran straight in her direction. 

Anathema gave them a hearty laugh and a quick hug each. "Why, hello, my dashing little knights! What brings you in here today?"

There was a bit of squabble over who between the two of them would get to tell the news, but it was resolved in a short moment with Adam's triumphant fist in the air.

"We've just come from one of the upper es-estates! The hills!" He exclaimed, gasping. "And we saw Mr Crowley's carriage."

"Yes, dears. Mr Crowley is expected today in Tadfield to introduce his betrothed to her Ladyship," explained Anathema.

Wensleydale made a confused expression. "No, Miss Anathema. Saw him step outta the carriage too, and he was all alone."

Anathema looked warily at her boss before turning back to the children. "Perhaps they mean to come in another carriage?"

"Dunno, but he really was all alone when we saw him, we swear!" Adam said, and he might have said more, but it was at this moment that the trotting sound of horses on gravel ignited from somewhere outdoors, followed by a collection of gasps and more chattering. Adam and Wensleydale, being eternally drawn to wherever chaos might be in this quiet village (and, where they could not find one, were equally prone to causing it themselves), bowed quickly to Anathema and ran off towards the door, the bells jangling another time before it slammed shut behind them.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Anathema turned back towards Aziraphale. "That's taken care of. What were you saying?"

Aziraphale stood a little dazed and quickly shook himself out of it, returning to his drawn up calculations. "Yes. Ah, the stage only passes by Tadfield once a week, so I will need to stay _at least_ a sennight, perhaps even a fortnight, in London to catch it also on my return. When I get there I must find some suitable accommodations, and even then I cannot be certain how quickly I can convince Miss Nutter to sell me the book." Anathema's expression became drawn. "Right. You should probably think the better of it. We received a missive from Mr Sandalphon this morning."

"What did it say?"

She took a deep breath. "He says that he will be raising the rent on the next contract, and you face eviction should you be unwilling to agree with the terms."

"That insufferable _nip-cheese,"_ muttered Aziraphale through gritted teeth. "The current leasehold expires in two months. Can he really think that he will find another tenant in so small a town as this?"

"I imagine he must also think you cannot find another place for the bookshop."

He scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing agitatedly. Collective gasps from outside drew both their attention, seeming to come from right in front of the shop, and as the chaotic rambling grew even louder, Aziraphale was compelled to march off towards the entrance.

Aziraphale heaved the doors apart with a groan, admonishment latched on the tip of his tongue, but was abruptly halted when he instead found himself on eye-level with the top of a carriage wheel. Around him, several villagers had come to surround the scene. He drew his gaze up, up, and _up—_ craning his neck towards the skies—to be met with the sight of the newcomer.

Mr Anthony Crowley perched atop the narrow flooring of his phaeton, one foot drawn up right to the edge as he held a leather whip in the grasp of a long-fingered hand. His copper red hair hung freely over his face and blew wherever the wind went, and a corner of his mouth pulled high into a grin the moment his eyes landed on Aziraphale.

"Ah, Aziraphale! Just the man I wanted to see." 

_Good lord._ His heart seemed to rattle inside his chest. "This is a ridiculously tall carriage."

Mr Crowley let out a chuckle, easily shucking off one of his long legs onto the wheel's axle and springing his weight on his knee to land the other one on the ground—a smooth motion which sent his frock coat billowing behind him. A round of startled gasps erupted from the crowd surrounding them. Mr Crowley walked—no, _sauntered—_ over to Aziraphale, stopping less than a foot away.

The rapidly diminishing distance between them sent a shock through him. Aziraphale had never thought much about Mr Crowley's penchant for hovering close to him, but so altered had it all become since they last met. He felt that his mind could draw essays on each small act done by him in Aziraphale's presence. He took a reflexive step back.

"I suppose I am to congratulate you on your engagement?"

Mr Crowley's brows drew into his face, furrowing with evident confusion. He laughed. "What? No, I am not yet engaged. Who told you that?" He shook his head, laughing some more. "I do, however, have an important question to ask you."

But Aziraphale was still stuck on his first declaration. _I am not yet engaged. Not_ **_yet_ ** _engaged._ What could he mean by it? What was his _intention?_

"Aziraphale?" prodded Mr Crowley, retrieving him from the gudgeons of his active imagination. 

Aziraphale shook himself out of his stupor, faintly colouring. "Ah, yes. Well, have at it."

Mr Crowley opened his mouth to speak, only to notice just now how silent the crowd had grown. Around twenty expectant eyes rested on the two of them, all hanging on every word that was exchanged. He glared at no one in particular. "Might I request we go somewhere private for this?"

Aziraphale quickly nodded, gesturing towards the interior of his shop. "We can talk inside."

It felt as though it took them eighteen and a half months to cross the bookshop grounds and enter into the back-room, where Aziraphale kept some settees and a tea-table. His eyes locked with Anathema as they passed by her, and though her confusion at Mr Crowley's presence was evident, she uttered not a word as the two men disappeared into the smaller room and the door shut behind them.

A silent moment passed between them, tension rapidly filling up the room. Aziraphale drew his lip into his teeth, waiting on bated breaths for Mr Crowley to speak.

"I think... you cannot be at a loss as to what this may be about," Mr Crowley said at last. "If I am not mistaken, half the town's already been informed of my mother's ultimatum."

Aziraphale nodded meekly, the thudding in his chest echoing up to his ears. "Yes, I am-I am aware that... that your mother has ordered you to take in a spouse."

"Very well. I hope you do not think it an imposition for me to place this request at your feet."

"Not at all," quipped Aziraphale, smiling shakily, hardly able to believe the words that were being said. "Come now, Mr Crowley. We are hardly strangers, and over the duration of two years I've come to consider you as a sort of friend. Pray do not hesitate a moment longer."

An expression of relief overtook Mr Crowley's countenance, his smile inching wider while he took a step towards Aziraphale who, this time, did not endeavour to take a step back.

"It cannot be helped," said Mr Crowley, a spark lighting up his fixing amber-coloured eyes. "I am rather persistent."

Aziraphale flushed rapidly. He did not anticipate him to be so straightforward! It must be so expected, however, considering that he had a great deal more wealth of experience in the craft of flirtation than Aziraphale ever did. He must try not to betray his own lack of knowledge.

"Indeed, I cannot imagine anyone to be as persistent as you."

"And your help will mean the world to me. I know you to be the only one skilled enough to undertake such a task."

At once, his mind was drawn into all perplexity. "Task? H-how do you mean?"

"Aziraphale." Mr Crowley took another step closer and he could feel the heat radiating from his form. Aziraphale was compelled to tip his chin to meet his eyes, only to be met with a look so soft that he felt a quiver in his knees. 

"Yes, Mr Crowley?"

"Please do me the honour..."

"Yes?"

"...of selecting me a special book that I may use for my proposal."

This time, Aziraphale did take a step back.

"I'm afraid I do not understand." He cleared his rushing thoughts and stared at his hands. "You want me to find you a book that you will give to your would-be betrothed?"

"More or less." Mr Crowley shot his hands on the edges of his coat and looked around the room. "I've been relying on your recommendations for some time now, so it's only natural that I should come to you again for when I will be needing it for the very last time."

Ah, right. He must suppose that Mr Crowley meant to reform himself with this marriage, and was not merely forced into compliance with the promise of his mother's fortune. He must care for this person a great deal. A hot flush rose to his cheeks. How could he have presumed—!

"Well." Aziraphale audibly cleared his throat, fiddling with his waistcoat in an attempt to look deep in thought. "Certainly a book so special as that cannot be found in my humble shop."

"Nonsense, I'm sure you are well-equipped."

"For your dalliances and fleeting lovers, to be sure I may be. But you are to make a lifetime commitment! You cannot settle for just any book. If you truly love this person—"

"I never said anything about _loving_ them. Funny you should mention that." There was a knowing grin on his lips that flustered Aziraphale quite a bit.

"Whether you do or do not love them, a proposal of marriage is no small matter."

"Fine," conceded Mr Crowley. "Where might I be able to find this oh-so-special book, if not here?"

"It needs to be something not quite so common, but very meaningful. One that is a testament to the great pains you took in order to obtain it, and whose story tells of the journey you and this person have shared."

"Then where do I buy it?"

"I am not sure where exactly," admitted Aziraphale, tapping a finger to his mouth. "Though of course, there can be no greater place to look for rare books than in London. Perhaps you can start there, assuming you know where the grand bookshops are."

Mr Crowley rolled his eyes. "Of course I know where the grand bookshops are. Locating the shops isn't the difficulty, rather it's in selecting a book. That is why I am asking for _your_ help."

"And I already told you that I do not have what you are looking for."

"Then come with me to London."

"What?" Aziraphale scoffed. "Mr Crowley, you are hoaxing."

"I am not. Really, I'm not." He drew his hands to his chest in a pleading motion. "Please, Aziraphale. I do not know who else to ask, and you will help me immensely."

"But I do not even know who you are proposing to."

"You do not need to know who they are, I only need you to select what you think of as the _perfect_ book. Do not worry so much about it."

"This is preposterous. I can't just... Oh, the cost of a London trip!"

"I will take care of everything, of course. I did request your assistance, after all. It's the least I can do." The sounds of Mr Crowley's boots on the floor filled the room as he circled around Aziraphale, hands folded behind his back.

"I will not have you sparing any expense on my behalf."

"It's hardly an expense. We will ride in my coach, and you know I already have a house in town. Centrally located in Mayfair too, so there can be no hardship on your part."

"You have a house in town?"

"Well, technically not _my_ house, but Mother never makes use of it now and it is _to_ _be_ mine. In fact, I've been managing it directly for years. Anyway, I am keen on making this the perfect proposal. I cannot bungle it up, Aziraphale. Do say you will help me."

Aziraphale carefully considered the matter. After the initial embarrassment of his odious presumption had faded (and he ought to consider himself fortunate that he hadn't said anything so compromising), it occurred to him that this arrangement with Mr Crowley might prove to be the solution to his own problem. But to spend so much time with Mr Crowley, to even live under the same roof as him—could he endure it? If this recent exchange proved one thing, it would be that Anathema and Madame Tracy had been horribly mistaken in their assumption that Mr Crowley held a tendre for him. If he truly were in love with Aziraphale, why would he request his help in retrieving a special gift for his soon to be intended? It made not a single sense for him to do so, and Aziraphale, in a moment of weakness, had allowed himself to be swept up into the fantasy.

Instead, he must set his own sights on his original goal—Agnes Nutter's book. To somehow have the coveted item in his hands, to come into possession of it would fulfill his lifelong dream. His fingers itched even now as he imagined holding it and running his eyes over the browned pages, gathering the _stories._ Oh, how he loved the stories. He was not worried about whether Miss Nutter would deem him the book's rightful owner. In his heart, he knew that only he must come into possession of such a book - if he could but only get himself to London. And here now was the perfect opportunity to do so, practically presented at his lap.

He set a determined gaze on Mr Crowley. "All right. But I have one condition."

Mr Crowley lit up in countenance. "And that would be?"

"I, too, am looking for a book in London," he said, keeping his gaze level on Mr Crowley. "A very rare book which I cannot just purchase on the fly. I am to meet with a famed book collector and negotiate with her for it."

"Yes, all right. I will pay for your book as well."

Aziraphale drew back. "That is not what I meant! I am quite capable of purchasing it myself. Do not go drawing the bustle merely because you are _swimming_ in lard." At Mr Crowley's utterly perplexed look, he huffed loudly and added: "I do not know how long it will take me to convince her to sell it to me, but I am determined not to give up until she does. So. I request that I may be allowed to stay with you for as long as that process may last."

"Ah, right."

"If you think it too heavy an imposition, you are free to refuse, of course. But that is my condition."

"It isn't. An imposition, I mean." Mr Crowley's ears grew faintly red. "Right, then. I agree. But I have a counter-condition."

"A counter-condition? Dear boy, you requested for _my_ help!"

"From now on, you must only call me Crowley. All this time you've been speaking to me as you would a friend, and I do not treat my friends with such ornate formality, therefore it should extend to you."

Mr Crowley held out a hand towards him, and before Aziraphale could think of a reason to second-guess it, he stepped forward and gave it a firm shake, their gazes locking. "Then I suppose we have ourselves an arrangement, _Crowley."_

"Oh, this will be great fun."

Aziraphale tried not to dwell on the thrill that shot down his spine when those words were uttered. He must be terribly lonely if even the slightest implications of an affection could send him to a right fluster.

But was it only his imagination, or did Crowley softly sweep his thumb over the back of his hand before carefully drawing it away?

  
  


*******

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all the encouragement from the previous chapter! I hope you enjoyed this just as much <3 I promise this story is mostly comedy-driven and won't venture into angst territory. The conflict comes merely from how thoroughly oblivious these two idiots can be, but I suppose we have all been fools in love? Maybe?? Then again, no one can be as foolish as Crowley and Aziraphale, when falling in love in every single AU that could possibly be conceived.
> 
> If you've read and liked this fic, you have my exceeding love and gratitude!


	3. Canterbury Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to London is fraught with bumpy roads that aren't quite so gentle on the backside. Aziraphale and Crowley entertain themselves by exchanging some Tales.

The journey that would have taken Aziraphale half a day, had he ridden on a stage per his initial plan, he was told would take but four hours in Crowley's coach. The distance to London was not so great, but the outskirts of Tadfield being surrounded by a series of hills traversed by roads that were very seldom kept in condition made traveling a tad more difficult. Even though being jostled around rocky paths for hours in an enclosed space did not sound particularly enticing, the coach was still a major improvement over public transport. Crowley's carriage was light, evidently built for speed, and emanated a feel of luxury with its silver brocade and coat of arms. Aziraphale had never ridden in anything quite like it. The two rows of seating inside were padded with quality leather, and the coachman proved to be a right top-sawyer, keeping a steady hand with the horses. Aziraphale, who did not usually prefer to travel at quick speeds, altogether felt that he was safe.

"Crowley, might you clarify something for me?"

Crowley, who looked to be a hair's width short of falling asleep, straightened in his seat as much as his gangly legs (which were bent at awkward angles in the small space) allowed. "About what in particular?"

"It is only that Anathema has made a peculiar suggestion." Aziraphale licked his dry lips and trudged on to finish his train of thought. "She thinks that you do not actually have any, erm, _discreet affairs,_ and the books you ask of me are instead kept for your own viewing."

"And I'm assuming you want to know whether there is truth to this." Crowley did not at all seem ruffled at the intrusiveness of his inquiry.

"I feel I have a right to know where my precious books are heading off to," answered Aziraphale with a greater deal of confidence.

"Well..." Crowley tapped his chin in thought. "I suppose Miss Device is _half_ -correct in her assumptions."

"Which half is correct?"

Crowley grinned wickedly. "I never gave the books away. Not once. I've built quite the collection thanks to you."

"Terribly fiendish, you are!" gasped Aziraphale. "After all the thought I put into them, that they may be thoroughly appreciated."

"And they _are_ appreciated by myself."

"Then why bother with the-the _Canterbury tales_ if you never mean to give them to anyone?!"

"I find great amusement in seeing you fuss."

"You shall find greater amusement in being pushed out of this carriage."

Aziraphale slapped a hand to his mouth, taken aback by his sudden impudence. Wary eyes were cast on his companion, but instead of scolding, the response he received came in the form of a loud chortle.

"Now I know it is the greatest amusement to have you argue with me," returned Crowley, eyes sparkling with lark. "D'you know you have the most exquisitely-shaped mouth?"

Aziraphale's cheeks at once set aflame, his jaw hanging open. "I..."

"So yes, I do collect the books," continued Crowley, dismissing Aziraphale's befogged expression in lieu of returning to the previous line of thought. "But as for the 'discreet affairs', I must own there have been persons who fit into that description - forgive my being vulgar."

"No it is quite all right," said Aziraphale, slowly recovering himself. "I mean, it is no secret to all of Tadfield that you are... more than seven."

Crowley made a light chuckle. "Probably not as much as you think. I'm no tempter. My affairs are temporary by mutual agreement. There are none of my partners willing to form an attachment with me, nor I with them. Their consent is of paramount importance. Whether that makes me _more than seven_ is probably not for me to decide, though." He arched up a brow at Aziraphale, gauging his reaction. "Do you think differently of me?"

"Not for the world would I have dared to lecture you. It is hardly my place to moralise," he replied with great sincerity. "Though I confess that I'm relieved to know you are not quite so loose in the haft."

Crowley tipped up his chin, the corner of his lip tugging up into an expression that was fast becoming familiar to Aziraphale. He seemed pleased by the outcome of the conversation.

"So, this book you seek in London, what's so special about it? Is there even much of a market for rare books in Tadfield?"

"Obviously not," returned Aziraphale. "You know I very seldom _sell_ books. Much of my earnings come from the circulating library I maintain, and a few restoration commissions."

Crowley nodded in understanding. "What of this, then? What makes it so important that you must set out for it, and are willing to pay a considerable sum?"

It took a moment for Aziraphale to form his reply. "I'm not so sure whether I should tell you. To you, it might seem trivial."

"You're certain about what would be deemed trivial in my eyes?"

"Anything beyond the mind of one's own can seem trivial in one's eyes, should they choose to see it that way. And I, with a proclivity towards sentiment and scrupulous methods, can easily be heeded the most trivial of all." 

"Come now, Aziraphale. We are friends. I'm sure I can excuse a bit of mawkishness on your part, even if you do dwell above and beyond what I normally concern myself with."

He folded his hands in his lap. "Well, if you must know, I am after a rare children's book—and that is all I will tell you about it."

In a burst of excitement, Crowley nearly flew right off his seat. "You cannot leave it at that! Come on, now I simply have to know more."

"It is a long, tedious story."

"This is a long, tedious journey." Crowley leaned forward, in that stalking manner he seemingly assumed whenever he attempted to persuade Aziraphale into doing something, though it looked far less dignified when done in a confined carriage. "Well...?"

"All right, fine!" Aziraphale huffed, briefly looking out to see the line of hills speedily fading in the distance. "The book I seek is a collection of children's stories called _Tales of the Eastern Knight._ Published over a hundred-and-eighty years ago, and only very few copies survive today. Some say there is only one left, belonging to a Miss Agnes Nutter who owns a bookshop in London."

"And the mere distinction of it being the only surviving copy is enough to spark your fancy? I confess I expected a better reason from you."

"That's not it at all. I'd have loved it if it _wasn't_ rare." Aziraphale bit his lip in an anxious motion. "I have never read it myself."

"Then how did you—?"

"My mother was a gentleman." He closed his eyes as soon as the words spilled from his mouth, unsure how Crowley would take the confession. "She was from a wealthy family. She-she had a copy, when she was a child. And since I was born, I grew up hearing all the _Tales_ directly from her."

"Why would you not have her copy, then?" asked Crowley, a tad hesitant.

"She, uh, was cast off from the family when she fell in love with my father. The match was vehemently opposed, my father being only a tradesman and all." He smiled ruefully. "I have never met her family. I'm not so sure they even know I exist. Anyway, my mother had no possessions with her when they flew off across the border."

Here Crowley started with a soft laugh. "You are a product of Gretna Green!"

"So what if I am?"

"Nothing wrong with that, of course. I just would not have expected it."

"Well, my mother was quite young, but they were truly in love, and remained to be so to their deaths. They were quite lucky in that respect."

"Indeed, they must have been. Very few people are lucky enough to fall into a love match." After this, Crowley fell silent for a moment too long, looking deep in thought. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"And so that's the story," Aziraphale finally spoke. "The _Tales_ is quite special to me. If I cannot have my mother's copy, I feel I must do right by her by obtaining my own. I've been attempting to get a hold of it for years now."

"But what is the _Tales_ actually about?"

"Crowley, surely you do not mean to ask even that. It is a simple children's story. It's more the sentimental aspects of it that I am attached to."

"Oh no, I am in great need of entertainment." Crowley flashed his teeth, stretching out his legs to nudge Aziraphale's calf with his foot.

Aziraphale huffed and kicked his foot back. "I am _not_ your performer!"

"But you do such a splendid job of it," reasoned Crowley, this time hooking his foot behind Aziraphale's leg and hitching it up by a fraction. Aziraphale jerked in his seat. "I am actually begging you to divert me. These roads are horrendously hard on the buttocks."

"They rather are, aren't they? How ever do you stand it?"

"Premium quality seats, I suppose," replied Crowley, running his hand over the empty space beside him, crimson leather sliding under his fingers. "So, do distract us from the trials of our throbbing backsides by telling your special _Tales."_ This last word he hissed through gritted teeth, ending with a distinct sibilance which sharpened Aziraphale's hearing.

"The stories are all about the adventures of a benevolent rogue knight, the Eastern Knight, who goes about war-torn regions of the realm in gleaming silver armour to help anyone in trouble. People who are in need of a little blessing, sometimes a comfort, or-or protection. He helps in any way he is capable, but in each tale he runs into the adversary— _the Black Knight._ Each time, the Black Knight appears just when you'd think the story is to be resolved, and he cuts up a sham, raises all sorts of dissent in order to set the Eastern Knight's plans back a pace."

"I should hope so. Dreadfully _jaw-me-dead_ boring these tales would be without the Black Knight's interference."

"But the Eastern Knight always prevails in the end, of course. For good shall always triumph over evil."

"Hm," was Crowley's curt reply before he drew his gaze back to the glass window.

Aziraphale scowled. "I don't know what to make of your lack of a response."

"Only because I know my response will entice you to quarrel with me."

"Now you simply must let me know what is on your mind."

Crowley's dark brows shot to his hairline. "You just seem so convinced that this is a clean-cut story about good and bad."

"It is a children's tale, Crowley, there isn't a lot of meaning to it."

"All I am saying is that this Black Knight doesn't sound so much like the evil entity you are making him out to be. It's not as if he started up all those wars in the first place. Did he?"

"Well... No. But he is attempting to stop the Eastern Knight from spreading good!"

"And again you perceive this to mean that the Black Knight is inherently evil for causing a bit of mischief? Because to me it sounds as though he's in need of a lark."

"The Black Knight is not some rusticated Oxford student, Crowley. He is a force of darkness."

"You forget the perspective of the _Tales_ is rather limited to your _precious_ Eastern Knight," said Crowley, bringing back the sibilance in his speech and adding onto it a teasing grin. "Do we ever get a clear idea about the Black Knight's motivations? His background? His real reason for popping up, right on time, in each and every _Tale_ there is?"

"Not particularly," Aziraphale said faintly. "Though again, it is a children's book. There's not much to it except for the never-ending push and pull of good and evil that is required in the world, and how good must always prevail in the end. That much is evident in the final _Tale,_ with the wars having receded one by one into sections of peace. The Black Knight admits defeat by retiring his armour to the Eastern Knight, who then decides that he is no longer needed, and he retires to a little cottage in the woods. So there. Not much to it, old chap. Do not throw yourself into a tizzy."

Crowley's lips pressed into a straight line as a wholly unbecoming noise was contrived from the back of his throat. 

"Pray tell me what is so funny about this?" demanded Aziraphale.

"Are you so sure that the Eastern Knight and the Black Knight are meant to represent good and evil in the world? Certainly you're aware there are subjects too distasteful to be published in a children's book. It might have been _mellowed down."_

Aziraphale locked eyes with him, and he felt rather like heating up under Crowley's intense stare. Slowly did the words spin in his mind before he caught onto a realisation, and his mouth fell open to a gasp.

"Surely you are not implying that... the Eastern Knight _killed_ the Black Knight, are you?"

Crowley's brows flew up once again, and the grin on his face morphed into a rich smirk while he shook his head.

"I am saying they fucked _,_ Aziraphale."

Aziraphale, to say the least of it, went positively livid.

*******

Steadily did the gravel paths recede into narrow streets, and the vast horizon into a line of vertically cramped buildings. The contrast between London and Tadfield was immense—in sight, sound, scent, and feel. The new surroundings were only vaguely familiar to Aziraphale, who sat with his hands neatly folded on his lap.

"Have you been to London before?" asked Crowley.

"Once. For a few days, and it was quite a few years ago."

"Did you stay with anyone at the time?"

He shook his head. "I took lodgings at an inn."

The carriage slowed into a steady trot as the establishments of Mayfair came into view. A handful of people, in the height of fashion, bustled about the streets. They were all so prettily attired, no matter how freshly sprung or dry and weary their faces were. Their dress seemed to command, their posture straight and affecting, and even their voices (from the little that he was able to hear) sounded vastly controlled. Aziraphale could not but think, as he took in his worn tan breeches covering his knees, that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"You will be fine, Aziraphale."

He looked up sharply at Crowley, surprised at hearing his attempt at reassurance. Could he have been so transparent with his anxiety? That would not do at all. Though it was Crowley who had requested his help with this trip, Aziraphale was in all awareness of what was expected of a man of Crowley's station; that he would be staying under his establishment meant that any vulgarity Aziraphale might betray in his manners would also affect him. He must take great care not to make a mull of anything. 

The Crowley residence in town was situated in Berkeley Square, and there they finally were able to disembark their coach. Aziraphale's knees wobbled when his feet hit the ground and he attempted to re-orient himself with the feeling of standing up. Crowley let out a hearty chuckle and put a steadying hand to his elbow.

Aziraphale turned back and took a step towards the following carriage, only to be halted by Crowley's sharp tug to his sleeve.

"I do not know how you could have missed it, but the house is _this_ way."

"But my valise—"

"The staff will handle all your things, Aziraphale. They will be up in your room by the time you get there."

Aziraphale nodded. His arm felt warmly confined in his coat.

They took the steps towards the entrance, and in the corridor stood the line of staff in the residence. Their heads all bowed in greeting when they entered the premises, and Aziraphale drew himself a little taller as he felt the hand pinching his sleeve slide across his coat to lay flat on his lower back.

Crowley whispered a few words to his butler, who then began the necessary round of introductions. Aziraphale had a smile to send each of them, mentally committing their names to his memory. He had not been a guest at many fine establishments, but he was taught how to conduct himself by his mother. The memories needed a bit of digging, but they came naturally. A gentleman must have a calm air towards the staff, with a countenance that was civil but not too friendly. A certain distance must be kept, but to scold or humiliate them outright was the greatest impropriety. 

"All these people you see have been in service of this household for years," said Crowley, hovering close to his ear. A flurry of warmth erupted in his gut, but he remained composed and relaxed his shoulders. "You may put your trust on each of them."

Unable to resist the spark of teasing, Aziraphale nudged his shoulder to Crowley's chest and said: "Surely that can only mean you to be an ever so _kind_ master."

A low grumble was elicited from his companion. "Do not ever call me that again."

Aziraphale gave him a gratified smile.

Crowley led him further into the corridor, passing by a narrow staircase as well as an open arch into what must have been the dining-parlour, and into a smaller room further off into the end.

"Where are we off to?" 

Crowley twisted open the doors. "The drawing-room's on the first floor. Off here is the book-room. There's someone else I should like for you to meet. I think he'll be of great assistance to you during your stay here."

The door was shut behind them, blocking them from the lingering staff out in the hall. In the center of the room stood a young man, not quite so far being Aziraphale's junior, clean-shaven and smartly dressed in what he could only assume to be considered _de rigueur_ in London. He was quite handsome, with a countenance that could be rendered capable, and his clothing looked to be sharply fitted without being impractical. Not quite a tulip of the _ton_ like Crowley was, but entirely pleasing as well.

Crowley removed his hat, stepping over to shake the man's hand. "Good to see you again, Newton."

"Mr Crowley! I trust your journey was not too troublesome."

Aziraphale did not know what to make of this interaction, and all of a sudden it occurred to him that he might be meeting the person that Crowley meant to be proposing to. The urge to retreat ran to the forefront. And how greatly this puzzled him. To take his leave would be uncivil, and even if he were able to do so, he did not know where to go. The two gentlemen, in clothing so smart and countenances nearly matched, continued talking for a short while, and the room grew increasingly uncomfortable.

Finally, Crowley saw fit to acknowledge his presence. "Aziraphale, allow me to introduce Newton Pulsifer, my secretary."

Oh. His secretary, then. That at least had been clarified, although Aziraphale did not know where the tide of relief that coursed through him had sprung from.

"Ah," faintly remarked Aziraphale. "Mr Pulsifer. Yes, h-how d'ye do?"

"Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Fell. Please call me Newton instead," he returned.

"You have heard of me before?"

He noticed a flicker of Newton's eyes over in Crowley's direction before returning to himself. "Mr Crowley has told me a few things."

Before he could inquire more about that remark, Crowley stepped in. "Newton handles all my business in town. I've some engagements I need to attend to on most days, so if you are ever in need of anything, you may come to him if I am not around."

"You sound so certain that I'll be _needing_ you, Crowley. I wonder at that." He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. For some reason, they sounded all the more incriminating in the presence of someone else. His cheeks went hot while he struggled to amend his statement. "Not that I mean - well, that is I won't be needing _you,_ only that I might require help when—"

Crowley burst into laughter. "You really do have the most remarkable mouth."

A wild snicker slipped out of Newton, his eyes shining with amusement as he watched the exchange.

"What-what can you mean...!" Aziraphale trailed off, too embarrassed to continue. 

"Well then," Crowley dusted off his coat, grabbing hold of Aziraphale's elbow again and giving it a firm squeeze. "I have some duties to take me away for now. Newton will take care of you, as you two also have a long day of business ahead."

"What business?" Aziraphale demanded, but in a gleeful skip, he stepped away and was gone at once, leaving a perplexed Aziraphale to stare after him.

"He always does it like that," said Newton, interrupting his thoughts. "Thinks it makes him appear more mysterious."

"It's a trifle silly."

"That's exactly what I have told him!"

Aziraphale smiled, allowing himself to relax in the younger man's presence. "What did he mean when he said we have business?"

"Ah, right!" Newton lit up with excitement, giving him a friendly beam. "He has placed on me very specific instructions upon your arrival, but you need not worry, Mr Fell. I'm to assist you with everything."

"Dear boy, surely this is a burden on you! I'm quite capable of going about on my own."

Newton cast him a long glance, running from head to toe and making him feel rather exposed. "Interesting. Mr Crowley told me that you'll be needing my help, but I think there to be very little to fix with you."

"To fix? What on earth have you two been going on about?" _By Jove,_ was no one in this house willing to talk to him in complete sentences?

"We must go at once, if we want to be back before dinner."

"Go where?" Aziraphale passed a frustrated groan when Newton crossed the room and opened the doors, motioning for Aziraphale to exit first.

"You seem capable of keeping Mr Crowley in check," said Newton while they walked out into the corridor. "I quite like you, and what a relief that is, for we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the next few days."

"I'm not so sure whether it is that I keep him _in check_ or merely that he derives joy out of vexing me."

Newton grinned once more. "He enjoys your company a lot. He doesn't take as well to most people, you know."

"You have not told me where we are going."

They paused by the door.

"Why, how else are we to prepare your entry into society, Mr Fell? We are to go shopping!"

  
*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've arrived in London! From here on out the fic will be mostly stuff about some social customs at the time, but it won't be a perfect copy of Regency societal rules. I'll be clarifying stuff where I've made some departures, like for example, Aziraphale's 'presentation' into high society won't really be some grand affair. Court presentation in front of the Queen was considered important in the uppermost upper classes at the time, but was mostly just used as a status symbol, a chance to show off an extravagant dress, etc. and was really only a requirement for entry into very exclusive balls like Almack's and events from the most snobbish members of the ton, so I figured it isn't really important in this fic. Besides, Aziraphale being a tradesman would mean he wouldn't be allowed to undergo a Court presentation anyway because ugh rich people ruuules
> 
> Okay, I kinda rambled off there. So yeah mostly just expect this story to be our favorite pair jumping around different spots in Regency era London, bickering and flirting and hunting for books while looking utterly fabulous
> 
> And follow me on twitter if you like! @angelsnuffbox  
> I mostly scream about Good Omens and thirst over Crowley, but occasionally I also post about my sewing projects (mostly modernized Regency-era clothing) as well as some analysis threads for different adaptations of Jane Austen's works because basically I'm a big mess.


	4. Much Too Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What qualities made a man of gentility?  
> In these contemporary times, the term 'gentleman' has become far too liberally applied. Where once one had to adhere to the strictest qualities in order to have a right to the title, now the lines have become blurred - trampled on, even; kicked and faded by the washing of waves on the shore.  
> And with this new chance at greater mobility comes inevitably a handful of surprises.

An eminent tailor by the name of Mr Weston of Old Bond Street had been, for several decades, in the service of only the most distinguished gentlemen of the _ton._ During this time he had come across many faces, young and old, weary and fresh. Hundreds, maybe close to a thousand. He had a reputation, after all. He had dressed the Beau. Yes, _the_ Beau, along with several other arbiters of fashion. Though some might have aimed to disparage him out of envious spirits by claiming his hands to be untrained, or his measurements off by an eighth of an inch (they were not, he knew, for he used a _sixteenth_ of an inch seam and could therefore distinguish when something so broad as an eighth of an inch was setting off the cut of his fabric), a stream of fine gentlemen continued to bustle into his saloon. Hopeful faces and jaded faces. Handsome ones and plain ones. From the dandiest of fops to the most debauched, half-sprung buck—all hoped to be fitted and dressed by _the_ Mr Weston of Old Bond Street, and all but a distinct few would be granted that wish.

It was late afternoon on a Thursday when two such gentlemen stepped into his saloon, one vaguely familiar and one entirely fresh. He did not greet them, merely observed from his partially obscured position behind a curtain of the adjoining room. He did not know them, and most of his commissions fell to his apprentices nowadays, after he'd instructed them thoroughly. It was his foreman who greeted the newcomers instead. A brief exchange commenced, no doubt to request the presence of the master tailor (as they all did), and he knew the excuses would soon come away from his foreman's tongue. 

The vaguely familiar gentleman brought out a card (rather presumptive, if Weston were to judge. How a man could perceive himself important enough to hand over his card to curry favours in his establishment, when he did not appear to have a dollop of noble blood in him) and handed it over to the foreman. To Weston's surprise, the foreman all but gave a quick nod at the card, tucking it in between their two fingers before crossing the room over to where he stood.

Weston's brows shot up to his hairline. "By Jove, Andrea! Who could that gentleman be, that you are giving me his card right after meeting him?"

Andrea shook their head meekly and transferred the card into his grasp. "It is not _his_ card, sir. They were sent here."

"My child, in this line of work you will meet with many a finely-dressed gentleman. What you ought to know is that their dress is merely a testament to the skill of their tailor, who sadly cannot do much in the way of their bird-witted brains. You must learn not to be so easily intimidated." With a small chuckle, Weston lowered his eyes to the card. A gurgle of spit got lodged in the back of his throat. _"Good god!"_ he cried, in between fits of coughing. 

"Is everything all right, sir?"

Weston did a few final clearings on his poor throat. His fingers ran down and smoothed the printed silk of his waistcoat before he stepped through the curtain, carefully avoiding his assistant's gaze.

"How do you do, sir?" He greeted with a large, practised beam. The vaguely familiar gentleman stepped forward.

"Mr Weston, I presume. Thank you for seeing us."

"Any friend of Mr Anthony Crowley's is a revered guest in these walls! Let's see what we have here..." 

From within his coat, Weston retrieved a golden quizzing glass and brought it up to his eye, scanning each visible nook and cranny of the man's clothing. "You do not look half as decrepit a case as many of my first-time clientele. Your tailor had some considerable skill, I daresay, but did not do you enough justice."

At this, the man wildly shook his head. "Oh no, sir. I am sorry I did not clarify. Newton Pulsifer, I'm Mr Crowley's secretary."

"Crowley sent his _secretary_ to a fitting?"

"No, sir, he sent his friend. This is Mr Fell, sir. The one who will be needing the fitting."

For the first time since their entry, Weston took a good look at the other gentleman. A quirk of his brow was induced by the sight, for what a project he was sure to be! The man was dressed in monochrome beige, enclosed in a flurry of a long coat and unassuming cravat. His breeches, tucked inside humble top-boots, were of a fashion that went beyond the number of his age. But he was, without a doubt, a gentleman. A country squire, probably, but he had a _quality—_ the airs of affability and composed posture, brought to cohesion by a pair of rounded cheeks and a doll-like face, and fair hair in the whitest shade he'd ever seen. The cogs of Weston's mind began to turn as he envisioned what flattering cuts would bring this figure to life, and what a _picture_ he was sure to make.

"Step up in front of the looking-glass, Mr Fell," said Weston, gesturing into one corner whereupon they could start with the measurements.

He began the ministrations of measurement with his usual focus while the two gentlemen continued to talk.

"I have yet to understand the necessity," said Mr Fell to his companion. He raised his arms to his sides and the tape was wrapped around his midsection. "I've not been so uncouth as to have forgotten to bring _clothes."_

"Mr Crowley has instructed me to arrange for new ones, as you will be required to partake in some engagements with him."

"Well you can tell Crowley that he needn't have bothered. I brought quite enough clothes for different occasions, and I've been told that I dress quite marvelously.” More bitterly, he added: “That my appearance is not suited to his taste is no fault of my own."

"While I do not contest you to be a fine man in _Tadfield,_ here it is a little different."

"Then what is wrong with my current attire?"

"For a start, in those breeches you run the risk of looking like Mr Crowley's coachman."

An angry flush spread over Mr Fell's neck. "I refuse to walk around in those _calf-clingers_ that the young ones like to wear these days. Dreadfully odious I think them!"

"As well you should," interrupted Weston, in the tone of one so eager to impose a glorified speciality. Mr Fell turned to face him with a startled look. "Your figure is not half-so-bad, Mr Fell, but you do not have the stature of a dandy. You do, however, have the bearings of a Corinthian. Do you do a lot of hunting in your grounds, sir?"

Mr Fell's response was a series of rapid blinks, delicate eyelashes batting up and down, dragged in the movement. "I do not have any grounds that you speak of, Mr Weston, nor do I imagine I'd find any use for it, should one magically appear in the back-room of my shop."

The response arrested him so entirely that it rendered him incapable of speech, and partially, as well, of thought. That such a person with the countenance of gentility, perhaps even nobility, turned out to be a mere tradesman puzzled him exceedingly! What on earth was he doing servicing _him?_ A million questions burned fire on Weston's tongue, though he exercised restraint, reminding himself that, genteel or not, this man had somehow come under the care of _Mr Anthony Crowley._

Instead, Weston plastered a smile on his face. "Might I suggest a pair of trousers, sir?"

*******

The visit to Mr Weston at Old Bond Street did not last for much longer, and upon their leave-taking, Aziraphale wondered where else they might have been headed off to, for Newton did not seem to be leading them off in the direction of Berkeley Square. More deeply did they enter into the line of shops, trudging through the dense crowds which moved in every which way, parting only for the occasional gig or curricle.

"I could have paid for Mr Weston's services myself, Newton," said Aziraphale with a marked point to his tone. "How on earth did he allow us to leave without my having compensated him?"

In response, Newton huffed a small chuckle. "I already took care of it, Mr Fell."

He had done no such thing. Aziraphale had never seen Newton draw out any blunt either. He raised that observation, and received only a booming laugh in response.

"It is already under Mr Crowley's account, so I _will_ take care of it."

"This is not in keeping with the terms of our arrangement," answered Aziraphale sharply. "I did not come here with the intention of hanging onto Crowley's sleeve!"

"Then I suggest you take it up with him. I am here only to follow instructions."

They went into a few more shops, purchasing cravats, gloves, and a pair of shoes, low at the sides. Newton took command of most transactions, and in each one Aziraphale could not but be increasingly puzzled at seeing that, though the shopkeepers were tolerably accommodating, neither of them had needed to bring out any money.

*******

They returned to Berkeley Square a few hours to dinner. Newton at once took his leave, and Aziraphale, grateful to finally retire from his long journey, extracted a book from his belongings and settled by the fire in the bed-chambers assigned for his stay.

He did not notice how much time had passed when a knock came to his door, which opened to reveal the housekeeper.

"Good evening, Mrs Tyler. Is everything all right?"

Mrs Tyler swung the door open wider, and another manservant whom Aziraphale had yet to meet stood to her side. "Mr Crowley requests your presence to dinner in about half-an-hour."

Aziraphale's chest went light. "Y-yes, tell him I will be down in a moment." How was it again in these grand houses?—he thought as he mentally rifled through his limited selection of waistcoats and sought out the finest one.

"And I am to introduce you to James, sir," continued Mrs Tyler with a gesture towards the person beside her, who then stepped up and bowed to Aziraphale.

"James..."

"I'm assigned to be your valet during your stay, sir."

Aziraphale retracted his smile. "There must be some mistake." Worry possessed the features of his face while Mrs Tyler took her leave and James stood in the middle of the room, head cocked to the side. "I did not request for a valet. Surely you are meant to be assisting Crowley instead."

But James only shook his head. "To my knowledge, sir, I was hired by Mr Pulsifer as you did not bring your own valet with you to this trip."

The worry was not so much in his seeming uncivilised. Aziraphale was not ashamed of his working class background, nor did he seek to conceal his origins. It was more that he had already drafted a thorough sheet of calculations for his expenses during this trip, including what he might be compelled to draw out to obtain Agnes's book, and had failed to account for tipping Crowley's staff. To add a personal valet into it would be risking quite a scrape.

James, however, appeared to see through his worries. "I-I was told that you are not to be treated as a guest, sir, so you need not worry about tipping. I have already been greatly compensated."

Here Aziraphale's confusion only grew in its measure. "Dear boy, who told you that? What can I possibly be, if not a guest in this house?" 

James had no answer to give him.

For the next few minutes, they went about dressing Aziraphale for dinner. Initially, Aziraphale assembled an outfit from his belongings, topped in the dark blue silk waistcoat he'd thought to bring along. But to his surprise, James brought out a fine linen shirt, very near to gauze in transparency, and an exquisitely starched neckcloth and collar. The stiff collar tips swept up to his cheekbones, and quite an unusual feeling it was for him to be so restricted in the turn of his head. The cloth to his neck was tied in a becoming barrel knot, and only then was his own waistcoat allowed to touch his round stomach. An accent of gold sprung from the chain which hung from the waistband of his breeches. Some balmy product was applied to his face, then to his hair, and just when Aziraphale was beginning to feel rather foppish, he turned himself onto a looking-glass and gasped directly at the sight.

The figure which stared back at him was one he almost did not recognise, for though it _looked_ like him and _moved_ like him, the result was one reminiscent only of the Aziraphale that he knew. The feel of fine linen on his bare skin brought to him an instinct to project himself more of a presence, his spine straightening by default, broad shoulders slightly drawn back. There were styled curls hanging over his forehead, none reaching his eyes, and on the crown of his head they were swept off into an artful wave. The white stiff collar-piece framing his chin, he thought with some amusement, made him look like a sort of Grecian bust.

"Thank you, James." 

Crowley met with him at the bottom of the staircase, as though he'd been for a while waiting for Aziraphale to appear so they could enter the dining-parlour together. He had dressed for dinner as well, in a burgundy waistcoat and the same stiff collar-piece as Aziraphale's, but his easy, unaffected manners were not to be seen when they met the other's gaze. Unlike the usual, Crowley did not have a cool remark ready at his lips, and his amber eyes shone with less amusement and more with an emotion that Aziraphale had never seen, and therefore could not put a name to. There was fire in them; an intense warmth that sent his insides to a faint sizzle, flickering up to a distinct heat in his pounding chest, even as he endeavoured to look calm. But how could it be done, when under the scrutiny of so striking a gentleman as Crowley? When the intensity in his look rendered him barely capable of coherent thought? 

Aziraphale blushed. How ever did a man become so capable?

He half-expected there some words to be said, but Crowley remained silent while they journeyed to the dining-parlour. As the soup course was served, Aziraphale could not but sneak glances at him from his position on the opposite end of the table.

"Have you had a pleasant day with Pulsifer?" 

Aziraphale frowned, fighting with the urge to twiddle his thumb over the glistening silverware in his grasp. "I've been meaning to talk to you about it," he replied. "Had I known my clothes would not suffice for this trip I would have taken care of it myself. This day has been nothing but one surprise after another."

Crowley tilted his head in thought. "Had I told you, I knew you would have protested."

"Sending me to your tailor was one thing, but the valet! You are doing it much too brown, do you not think, my dear?"

"I arranged for the matters I thought to be necessary."

"I do not much like surprises."

A tense silence passed through the room. And then, Crowley said: "Forgive me, I may have overstepped. I probably would not have done it, had I known you would dislike it so."

Aziraphale lowered his gaze to his white soup, which was fast becoming a favourite of his overzealous tongue, and mumbled: "I did not say that I disliked it."

Crowley's spoon clanged once against the china. Aziraphale could feel his eyes on him.

"Ah."

"I simply do not like surprises," continued he, though an instinct of shyness was creeping onto him. This in no way seemed like a proper conversation between a person and his guest. "And from now on, I beg you not to extend yourself so much on my account."

"That is noted."

"And thank you, Crowley," he said, smiling.

"No, do not—"

"And you _will_ take all gratitude that is due you. To be sure you do not want to see me when I am vexed."

Crowley grinned slyly. "On the contrary, I'm of the opinion that there is much to enjoy in such a sight."

"Do you hear yourself when you say these things?" said Aziraphale, colouring in the cheeks. "You are doubtlessly the oddest creature I have ever met."

They settled further into conversation as the main course arrived. Crowley told Aziraphale of how his own day had been spent, paying calls to some acquaintances and meeting with his solicitor, and Aziraphale relayed to him his experience at Weston's.

"So. Tomorrow we begin the great quest to find the perfect book," uttered Crowley.

Aziraphale flicked up his chin and nodded. "Indeed. Do you know where we will be going?"

"There is a book and printshop not far from here, though I have some doubts as to what we might find. They tend to specialise in novels."

Aziraphale shot him a tight smile. "And you have a problem with novels because...?"

Crowley, who had by now sensed that he had struck some chord with him, hauled out a strange noise from the back of his throat.

"I-I only meant that there isn't likely to be anything so special, or too different from those you already have back in Tadfield."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe," returned he, deciding not to press on the matter. "It is very difficult to procure the latest novels for my collection. I am always at least one or two years out of date."

"Ah, then there might be some merit to journeying there tomorrow," said Crowley in a much lighter tone. "We shall go after lunch. I am confident I won't be so misguided, what with you around."

Aziraphale agreed. "And after that I will continue the journey off to Soho."

"What the deuce will you be in Soho for?" remarked Crowley, entirely bewildered. 

"I am to see Agnes Nutter. You remember what _I_ am here for, do you not?"

"Of course I remember. The _Tales._ But you did not tell me she lived in bleeding Soho!"

"I did not think it worth mentioning!"

"You are not to go there alone."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me, Aziraphale," Crowley said gravely. "Looking like _that,_ you are asking for trouble."

"Crowley, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

"You are not from here, Aziraphale. You have not enough street-smarts. Not everyone here will be as unconditionally affable as the people you meet in Tadfield."

"What do you suppose I do, then?"

Crowley took a moment to reply. "Would you object so much if I insist on coming with you?"

Aziraphale suddenly found the patterns of the tablecloth very entrancing. 

"Well, I..."

"Only I won't insist on it if you do not want it," Crowley added, sighing. "But it will allow me reprieve to make certain that you are safe."

Aziraphale licked his lips, carefully avoiding his gaze while he spoke.

"I don't... I would not mind it, but." He dared to look up, and succeeded only in finding that he had somehow become an object of Crowley's intense study. He averted his gaze once more. "You must be quite busy, and I do not want to put a wrench on your plans when you... you have already done so much for me."

"Have you any other objection than that?" Crowley asked softly.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and, slowly, shook his head.

He and Crowley were to spend the entire day together.

"That settles it, then," said Crowley, something closely resembling relief taking hold of his expression, like he'd just released a gust of breath. 

And as a couple of footmen brought to him a plate of fresh fruits for dessert, and there continued to be a rhythmic throbbing in his chest, he found that not only did he not mind Crowley’s accompanying him to Soho, but that he was also a great deal— _too_ great a deal than would be warranted by so simple a circumstance—looking forward to it.

  
  
*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A 'dandy' refers to a select group of Regency gentlemen who adhered to the strict rules of dress made famous by George 'Beau' Brummell. They can easily be identified by their scrupulously fitted clothing, extremely skintight pantaloons (or 'calf-clingers' as Aziraphale likes to call them), high neck collars, stiffly starched cravats, and clean-shaven bodies. Brummell himself was known to take 3-4 hours each morning to be bathed and dressed by his valet. They were quite averse to dirt and rowdy sport. Many of the more athletic and country-dwelling men at the time tended to look down on these people as being needlessly fussy._
> 
> _A 'corinthian' is a well-dressed sportsman._
> 
>   
> I challenge yall to a drinking game. Take a shot everytime Aziraphale is mentioned, either by the narrator or any other character, to be extremely pretty. You'll have the time of your life trust me lmao


	5. Ninth Earl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing quite matches the unpredictability of one so lively as the heart of a city - where grand ball-rooms are converted to printshops and printshops to lounges in but the call of a mind's fleeting fancy. There is nothing to equal it, surely, anywhere in the country - as Aziraphale comes to find out.

"What did you say this establishment was called again?"

 _"The Repository,_ Aziraphale."

"And you are certain this is the bookshop we are meant to be visiting?"

"Did you not see the signboard up front?"

"I did, only this looks rather more like a _lounge_ than a bookshop."

The Repository, Aziraphale would concede, resembled a regular bookshop in one pertinent component: an over-flooding amount of books. Books that were settled on shelving spaces that abut all sides of the room (which was, to own, of no mean size). These books were also available for direct purchase, as would be expected of a bookshop. And...

Well, the resemblance ended there.

In terms of size and shape, it appeared to be more of a grand ballroom—wide in one direction and around five or six times longer in the other, as though it had been made to accommodate the positions required in a country-dance. Only by now these people had grown weary of the tediously prudish activity and had begun to develop an appetite for the infinitely more charged _waltz,_ and therefore this ballroom had no longer any use, but for housing an establishment which was and could be considered—but also not quite—a _bookshop._

A domed skylight was fixed high up over the heart of the room, shedding the skies onto an array of ottomans and porcelain tea-sets. The air itself was heavy with conversation, resulting from the twenty or so occupants filling the room. It was by no means noisy, but very chattery, and a setting whose presence Aziraphale would on no account allow to grace his own premises.

"One would think there is a party in here," remarked Aziraphale as he ventured deeper into the room with Crowley moving in tow.

"Oh, definitely not. They do the parties only on Thursday nights."

Aziraphale turned an affronted expression towards him. "Are you serious?"

"Indeed I am," replied Crowley, tilting his head with interest. "I have heard it described as one of the best places for a noble to get _perilously_ sloshed."

"The best place to get drunk as a wheelbarrow is a bookshop?"

"There can be no greater dignity." Crowley's eyes betrayed a spark of mirth, and he found himself forcefully tugging down the corners of his lips.

"What a load of fustian nonsense," returned Aziraphale, turning away at once.

Aziraphale perused the selection with the focus of only one so accustomed to the task could do. He must own there to be a fine selection of novels and magazines, and perhaps these fashionable patrons had a preference for the latter. There were specific catalogues for home interiors, carriages, linens, gowns, and riding habits, all pronouncing which were in the current trend. It was difficult to wrap his mind around how _fast_ people seemed to live in this place, how readily they adapted themselves to change where the tides of high society felt they must flow, and with lots of cash to dispense with that allowed them such a luxury. 

At last, Aziraphale had settled on something acceptable. He brought out the book, one of the newer novels in circulation, and held it out for Crowley to see.

 _"A Steadfast Alliance,"_ muttered Crowley as he read the cover. "And this is what exactly?"

"It is a marvelous book, my dear," he said, his eyes going slightly misty. "One of the new releases. I was able to borrow a copy, but I do not have one in my own collection. Oh, but it is so beautifully written, and I do not think it is half-so-bad for a proposal gift."

Crowley cast a skeptic look over the book, turning it over and over in his hands. He then opened to a random page and, for some inconceivable reason, _sniffed_ it.

"I do not know what it is about." 

"And you never shall, if your intention is to _scent_ the plot out of it."

Crowley sent him a fierce glare. "Indulge me a little."

Aziraphale glanced back down on the book, letting the wave of nostalgia wash over him. A soft smile graced his expression at the memory. Very quickly had he fallen in love with it, and had read it twice more since, before he'd had to let go of his loaned copy. And even so, he had never forgotten everything that mattered, and he continued to carry it close to his heart. 

"It is about two people who were fated to despise one another," said Aziraphale in a faint whisper. "Only they had gone against fate and had fallen in love instead. But they knew it could not be, and so they separated for-for a long time, only to find that the love they felt would not fade still."

"Sounds rather gloomy if you ask me. Are you suggesting I give my would-be betrothed a book about ill-fated lovers?"

Aziraphale frowned. "You focus on the dreary parts. The prose is so beautifully written, and rings true to the forlorn heart. I daresay a great many would appreciate it."

Crowley still appeared to be unconvinced, but Aziraphale had by now blocked him out. He took the book in his own hands and, pressing it close to his chest, mumbled softly: _"'In regret, one learns to exercise the mind—if only to equal with the heart. For the heart has always bested the mind in performance. Too often it retains what the mind has elected to discard'."_

Crowley went silent, only staring at him.

Aziraphale laughed. "I understand it may not be to your taste, but as far as proposal gifts go, it isn't bad at all."

The smile that appeared and lingered on Crowley's face seemed almost fond.

"I will consider it, then. But we should look into more options."

"Very well," Aziraphale resigned and placed the book back on the shelf where he'd gotten it. "I know you to be hesitant only because of your aversion to novels."

Crowley balked at the accusation. "I am not _averse_ to novels, Aziraphale. I merely do not like being told how a story ought to go."

"That is precisely what a novel does!"

"Then they should know better than to do it with me."

Aziraphale was on the verge of outrageous tears. "You are insufferable."

"Only one among my repertoire of many talents." When Aziraphale began to turn away, Crowley held onto his arm. "Are you not going to buy the book? I thought you didn't have your own copy."

Aziraphale flushed. "Well, I would love it, of course, but I set out here for only _one_ book. I can't exactly be so _liberal_ as to factor in an unplanned expense." He sent Crowley a wide smile. "Oh do not be sorry for me, dear boy. As well it said: _The heart has always bested the mind in performance._ It has spoken to my heart, and is forever imprinted in me now, even if I should never get my hands on another copy."

With that final word, Aziraphale twisted to turn towards another category of shelving, hopelessly oblivious to the tall redhead's gaze lingering after his retreating form, and after but a few moments' hesitation, to his hand clutching onto the cast-off book. In his mind was formed a resolution to find a way to purchase it without Aziraphale's notice.

*******

The journey from one London bookshop to another was not particularly long. Aziraphale swore they could not have gotten too far through the hack that they rode, but when he set foot on the grounds of Agnes Nutter's shop in Soho, it felt an awful lot like he'd been transplanted to some realm beyond the continent.

The first thing that came to his notice was the distinct lack of chattering. On the contrary, there was hardly a soul inside. Much like The Repository, Miss Nutter's shop had a domed skylight in the center, only there wasn't as much light entering, and inside it was dim--no ottomans or lounge spaces. Only cases of books filmed by a layer of dust. An eerie silence hung in the air, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered whether they had gotten to the right place, when at last an elderly woman stepped down from a staircase and greeted them with only one scornful look.

Aziraphale faltered in the greeting that he had planned. _That is one way to greet potential customers._

"Miss Agnes Nutter, I presume?" Aziraphale uttered loudly, summoning a kind expression to his face. When the woman did not respond, he retrieved a letter from inside his coat and very slowly handed it to her. "I am acquainted with your niece, Miss Anathema Device. Here she wrote you a letter. I entreat you to take it, ma'am."

Miss Nutter took a few moments to read the letter in her steel grasp. The eerie silence went on, and a slight chill ran down Aziraphale's back. If anything, this bookshop appeared to have been designed to deter customers than to attract them. He exchanged a quick glance with Crowley, who gave him a warm look in return. Anxiety arose fast through his nerves while Miss Nutter kept reading, and his breathing began to grow hard. The corner of Crowley's mouth reached upward into a small, soothing smile, and Aziraphale was arrested by the sight.

"You are here for the _Tales."_

Miss Nutter's voice snapped him out of a trance. He turned back to face her, his cheeks growing slightly warm. 

"Y-yes, ma'am. Indeed."

"Mr... Fell."

"Yes, that is me," returned he in a fragile tone. He suddenly became quite unsure of what to do with his hands, and they fiddled with his coat, trailing down to his waist before fluttering to his sides. "I have been looking for a copy of the _Tales_ for a long time now, Miss Nutter. When I heard from Miss Device that the sale did not push through, I set out for London in order to pitch myself as a buyer."

Miss Nutter made no attempt to reply. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back and circled him, casting an assessing look over him from head to toe.

Aziraphale endeavoured not to squirm. What was it with these town residents and their propensity for _staring?_

"I-I also own a bookshop," Aziraphale supplied, though there was not much reason to do so. He was certain that Anathema had already mentioned in her letter the nature of their acquaintance, but the dreadful silence was starting to form a barricade against his ears and he did not know how much longer he could take it. "And-and I had grown up hearing about the _Tales_ from my mother. She had been--"

"Very well. You may go."

Aziraphale nearly choked on air. "I am sorry? Go where, exactly?"

"Out of here," replied she, starting to turn away from him. "I do not know whatever it is you've been led to believe, but I am not selling the book to you. Therefore, you may go."

He let out a stricken gasp, grinding his foot onto the floor. "With all due respect, Miss Nutter, I have come a very long way! Not that I expected you to just hand it over, though I did expect that you would grant me the civility of letting me state my case before settling on a verdict!"

His breathing was caught by a pang to his chest. After all these years, he was here, in Agnes Nutter's bookshop, within ames-ace of _the_ book! In all likelihood within the same room! Unfair it might have been for him to expect Miss Nutter to understand all that this book meant to him, or the great pains he'd had to overcome, but how in heaven was he to accept being turned away with so little attempt at decorum? He stood straight, and with an air of haughtiness he spoke: "I am owed, at the very least, an explanation."

"Are you?" Crudely replied Miss Nutter, undeterred. "You need not trouble yourself with an explanation. I possess a great talent for scrutiny. For seeing things beyond what one merely _sees._ And what I see, Mr Fell, is that you are not the right person for the _Tales,_ and so I am not to sell it to you. Good day."

Aziraphale was left outraged and utterly befogged, but still unwilling to give up, he sternly said: "I know not what you mean by that but I can assure you, Miss Nutter, that I have not _'succumb to apoplexy'_ written into my schedule—!"

He heard a brief snort of amusement hailing from Crowley's direction and resolutely ignored it.

"—and why you should sell the _Tales_ to such a man whom you have _scrutinised_ to die on the fated date of your transaction and not to _me_ is—forgive my wording, but—absolute _moonshine!"_

Aziraphale had never been one to be so overcome by emotion that it went out of his control, but he was now barely grasping onto its reins. His breathing came ragged, trembling fists pressed into his sides, and he struggled to maintain his composure—or whatever was left of it. 

A hand pressed above his elbow—the softest touch that took him aback, his shoulders rising at once, then falling all the way when he saw Crowley step over in front of him.

"Miss Nutter, if I may," he uttered, his voice smooth as butter, and Aziraphale could not but feel a shiver down his back. "I have known Mr Fell for quite some time now, and have had him advise me on all matters regarding literature. If you would not hear his words, I must entreat you to heed mine. He has been excessively helpful and I can think of no one more deserving of such a treasure you must hold."

"And who are you?" 

"Anthony Crowley, ma'am," returned he, bowing courteously. 

Miss Nutter gave him an admonishing glare. "Do you think he is the first country shopkeeper to have graced my doors in search of this book? Why should he be any special?"

"He is not _merely_ a shopkeeper, ma'am. I have met many a tradesman and they have all had an inkling to their craft merely for the sake of earning a living. Though that in itself is not a fault, I have found that it is not at all the same case with Mr Fell."

Aziraphale stood silently, holding his breath while he listened to Crowley's speech.

"He does not just care for books," resumed Crowley, sounding increasingly cock-sure. "He cares for the _stories_ . The preservation of them. Though I cannot pretend to share the same passion, if you would but listen to how he talks of it, to be sure you will be struck. He is aware of the responsibility beyond just the selling of books. He cares for them and restores them, that plenty more will be able to enjoy them. And is that not what your lot is after? From what I heard of it, your copy of the _Tales_ is the last one in existence. You are—and I do not mean offence, for you certainly do not _look_ it—quite in your dotage, Miss Nutter. If you are, by now, considering to whom you may safely impart your precious possessions on, I will attest to Mr Fell being the very best person for it."

Aziraphale held his breath still while Miss Nutter formed her response. Her _scrutiny,_ it seemed, was now directed entirely at Crowley in place of himself. 

"Tell me, sir," said she, a stoic mask betraying little of her expression. "Are you of noble blood?"

Aziraphale was surprised at the question. He turned to look at Crowley, wondering how he would reply.

"I do not see how that is relevant to the matter at hand," he returned coolly.

"On the contrary, it is of the utmost relevance." This time, a hint of a cheeky wink graced her look. "I shall ask you again. _Are you a noble?"_

He exchanged a quick look with Aziraphale before turning back towards her.

"Not in my own right, ma'am. My grandfather is the ninth Earl of Eden."

At once, her expression changed, her mask giving way to one of light wonder and amusement. Hope sprung in Aziraphale's chest before he could think the better of it.

Miss Nutter nodded once towards Crowley. "Very well. I will agree to meet another time with Mr Fell, that I may carefully assess his qualities, and whether he is to be the rightful owner of the _Tales."_

"He is sure to be," said Crowley calmly. "It is only a matter of you seeing it for yourself. He need hardly prove it."

Aziraphale could not believe what he was seeing. Before the triumphant moment could pass, or such luck he'd had would fall away, he took out his card and handed it to Miss Nutter. "Here is my card. I thank you very much for granting me this opportunity."

Belatedly, he realised that his card contained only his details from Tadfield. It seemed too awkward to ask for it back, though, and for a moment he trifled with the matter in his head, before Crowley stepped in and handed his own card to her.

"Mr Fell is staying with me at the moment. Please do address your invitation to my residence. We look forward to hearing from you."

Miss Nutter accepted both cards, and as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of her, her gaze shifted between the two of them, and Aziraphale could not but notice the passing of a _knowing look,_ manifested as a peculiar gleam in her eyes.

*******

Aziraphale made no attempt to talk on the hackney ride back, and it might have been a bit of cruelty towards Crowley who, against his expectations, had gone quite out of the way to get him out of his scrape. He shuddered to think how the ordeal might have gone had he not been there to save him, and knew he ought to feel more gratitude. But his mind was in a whirl, too preoccupied over the words that Agnes Nutter had told him.

"Aziraphale. What are you thinking?"

He turned to look at Crowley, seated beside him in the enclosed two-seater space of the hackney coach, and blushed at the proximity of so handsome a face to his own. Since when did he have such long, delicately curved eyelashes? He averted his gaze quickly.

"I am exceedingly puzzled over Miss Nutter's words. She claims to possess... a _scrutiny."_

"Have you really any belief in matters of fantasy? I am sure it means nothing."

"Personally, I do not dwell in such things, but... supposing that she does have the talent, for what reason could she think that I am not the rightful owner of the _Tales?_ For the life of me, Crowley, I cannot conceive of any reason why it should not be sold to me, if she had already planned on selling it before!"

"There isn't a reason. You are stressing over nothing now. All you need to do is show her how greatly passionate you are over your books and why you _do_ deserve it."

Aziraphale sighed and nodded. "You are probably right. And I thank you for your help. I do not know how much more I should be in your debt, my dear."

"Think nothing of it," returned Crowley, softly.

"But I cannot help thinking that I am somehow _missing_ something." 

The hack came to a stop, and they departed the carriage at Berkeley Square. They set out on foot, but Crowley halted him with a pinch to his sleeve.

"We've one last stop."

Aziraphale's brows drew in confusion. "We are not going back to the house?"

Crowley shook his head. "Come, there's something I want to show you. It is not that far from here."

Side-by-side, they talked amicably while walking around the block. After a short while, they stopped in front of what appeared to be a cafe, where Crowley opened the door on his behalf.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, but walked in. A soft gasp fell from his lips. He was inside a confectioner's shop, with small tables and seats sprawled about the room. Light conversation floated in the air from merry patrons ornately dressed, and Aziraphale eyed the selection of sweets with a great deal of curiosity.

"Oh my..." His wide-eyed gaze turned to look at Crowley, finding him to be studying his reaction.

"I thought you might like to try a little delicacy."

"I do so love desserts," remarked Aziraphale, flushing lightly. "Though you need not have troubled! Really, this... These all seem rather expensive. And I would not know what to order anyway. Certainly there is nothing like this in Tadfield."

"Do you trust me?"

Aziraphale, struck by his softened look, found himself nodding.

"Then take one of those empty seats and I shall bring you over a little treat."

Aziraphale did so, and waited patiently in his seat while Crowley took care of their orders. 

Not long after, a server brought two glass containers to their table, each beholding some creamy glistening treat that Aziraphale had never seen before.

Crowley stuck a spoon into his own glass, using it to shave off a portion of the treat. It came off smoothly, and as he brought it into his mouth, his reddened lips puckered out to savour every trace before sliding it gracefully out of his mouth.

Aziraphale caught himself staring and quickly looked down at his own treat.

"This is called _ice-cream,"_ said Crowley, and there was a hint of excitement in his tone. "Go ahead. Try it."

Nodding, Aziraphale followed his example and dug his spoon into the treat. He was surprised at how soft it was, the consistency looking to be similar to cream, but a tad more voluminous. The sides of the glass were moist and cool to the touch. When at last he popped the spoon into his mouth, his tongue tingled at the sensation of cool mixed with something faintly sweet and floral, a distinct aroma bursting up to his nose.

He moaned deeply, his eyes drawing shut while the buttery ice melted to sticky fluid on his tongue.

"It is cold!" he said, rather dumbly, though he was quite incapable of coherent thought. Quickly he dug in for another portion, moaning once again as it melted in his mouth. "My dear, this is simply marvelous."

Grateful, he looked at Crowley, only to find his tan face hastily approaching the shade of his hair. "Crowley, are you quite all right?"

Crowley's eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open around his silver spoon, like he had been in the middle of consuming a bite and had been brought to interruption. He looked down, digging his spoon back into his own ice-cream and swirling it about.

"It is, uh... Nothing. Do continue, please."

Aziraphale decided not to press further and happily dug into his dessert.

"I really cannot thank you enough for what you did today," said Aziraphale. With his mind now set more at ease, he could readily express the gratitude he so felt. "I don't know how I might have handled it, had I been alone."

Crowley shrugged. "I am sure you would have found a way on your own."

"Oh, hardly," replied Aziraphale with a light, amused scoff. "I do not claim to possess half your capabilities in charming ladies."

"Oh?" Crowley arched up a brow, taking up another bite of his ice-cream. "Are you saying that I have succeeded because I used some wily _charms_ on Miss Agnes Nutter?" Laughter was already on the verge of his mouth, so Aziraphale quickly formed his reply.

"Not that I insist that you have done it on purpose, but..." he trailed off, pausing to take another bite of his ice-cream. His senses had now placed its flavour to be jasmine, its fragrance not as strong as it had been on his first bite. "Well, I have seen the way the Bond Street shopkeepers react to seeing your card. You make quite the impression, and I can't imagine very many people to be resistant to one so handsome as you are."

Crowley's lips quirked up. "You think me handsome."

Aziraphale suddenly found the ring on his finger the most riveting item in existence. "You are _objectively_ handsome. There is a difference."

"No there is not!"

"Yes there is," replied Aziraphale in a firm tone. "There is such a thing as handsome in one's eyes and handsome in _all_ eyes, you being quite resolutely the latter. My saying that you are handsome should raise no brows, for you are undeniably so, and therefore means next to nothing."

He dared to look into Crowley's face as he ended his speech, finding there to be the greatest mirth. He could not help noticing how the cold treat had made Crowley's lips redder and plumper.

At once, Aziraphale attempted a change of subject. 

"What flavour of ice-cream do you have?"

"Parmesan." Crowley's expression remained unchanged even as he spoke. 

"Oh. That sounds delightful," he replied, stubbornly maintaining this line of conversation. 

Crowley took out another portion from his treat. "Here. You should try it yourself." 

His arm stretched over the small circular table, bringing his spoon close to Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale acted before his mind could form any formidable thought and closed his mouth around it, allowing the saltiness to burst and melt away. His tongue pressed flat on the underside of Crowley's spoon, caressing every inch, and it dragged smoothly while Crowley slid it out past his lips.

Crowley stared at him, attention rapt.

"How do you like it?" He asked, his voice soft; deeper than Aziraphale had ever heard it.

"It is very good." He swallowed, harder than he'd intended. "I think I prefer it to jasmine, actually."

Crowley smiled, digging his spoon back again and pushing his entire glass over to Aziraphale. "Let me tempt you to a swap, then."

"Oh, no. Surely there is a reason why you have taken that for yourself. I'll not let you sacrifice it on my behalf."

"It will be more greatly appreciated on your tongue than mine, Aziraphale. Take it, I insist."

Aziraphale didn't protest further as Crowley pushed his glass towards him and took Aziraphale's glass over to his side of the table.

Intensely, he studied the spoon in his grasp, only now registering how it had been in Crowley's mouth only moments before, and now had traces of both of them, and greatly puzzled was he at how something so mundane could send him so dangerously close to a fainting spell.

He tore off a portion of Parmesan ice-cream, and as he took it in his mouth, felt all the gratitude for the ice cold treat which was, at the moment, the only means of cooling down his rapidly flaming cheeks.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Repository in this chapter was *loosely* based on Ackermann's Repository of Arts, a print and picture-shop founded in 1796. Many of Ackermann's prints and plates about Regency trends and fashion are still widely available and are used by Regency costumers and filmmakers and enthusiasts alike as references.
> 
> The desserts shop is based on Gunter's, first built in 1757 in No. 7 Berkeley Square. They were famous for their variety of ice-cream flavors and were known to cater the treats served at balls and dinner-parties hosted by the wealthiest families. (Heyer also seems to like mentioning Gunter's in her works lol)
> 
> *ADDENDUM: Been getting almost ALL comments about the parmesan ice cream and honestly, pls I got that straight from a Regency London reference book about Gunter's it's a legit flavor they served. And cheese ice cream is pretty common and cheap where I'm from (and also I love it a lot bc I dont like super sweet stuff) so I didnt expect this was gonna garner that much attention but yeah. As an Asian person, please I entreat yall to be a bit kinder towards food that you haven't tried yet, especially if that certain food might be a common thing in some specific cultures. I promise you, cheese and ice cream isn't really some wild combination, there's been a TON of weirder stuff out there.
> 
> 'A Steadfast Alliance' is a book I imagine to be a mockup of Jane Austen's 'Persuasion' - a tale about forbidden romance. Persuasion has some of Austen's best prose, imo. So for the bit that Aziraphale quotes from that fake book, I tried to make something that would fit into the solemnly romantic prose style in Persuasion, of course Austen is Austen and no one can quite match her. Not even Heyer :)
> 
> **
> 
> Thanks so much for keeping up with this little thing! Much love <3 and please, I dearly appreciate every single kudo and comment. You're all so kind!


	6. Den of Iniquity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For what do we live, but to make complete spectacles of ourselves, and for the staff to make sport of us?

Aziraphale granted to himself plenty of hours of sleep through the night, awaking near lunch time the next day. Grey skies hung outside his window, bringing a wrench into any promenade plans he might have had in mind. At the moment, there were no pressing reasons for him to leave the house, so he resorted instead to spend the day catching up on his reading.

James came in to help him dress. He wore another fine linen shirt and his regular brown waistcoat and his face was clean-shaven with an exquisite blade, held in a light-handed grasp. 

"Mr Crowley has asked me to tell you that he will be in his private study the entire day, if you need him," said James as he encased Aziraphale in a crisp white neck-stock, steadily latching the small buckles at his nape.

"I see. He does not have any town business today?"

"It seems he does not."

Having resolved to obtain himself a hearty meal, Aziraphale headed downstairs to dine alone. On the last staircase he passed by one of the chamber-maids, who held in her arms a pile of linens that looked too heavy for her frail form.

"Dear Henrietta, you look quite troubled," said Aziraphale. "Let me help you with that. Where will you be taking these?"

Henrietta drew into herself, looking wildly at Aziraphale before flustering and averting her gaze to the items in her hands. "Oh, no! No, sir, that will not be, um, necessary." Her voice was small, frail as her petite form, and terribly frightened. Aziraphale considered for a moment asking what had gotten her into such a state, but it appeared as though she would be most reluctant to divulge such information.

"But, dear—"

"I am to bring these to your apartment, sir."

Aziraphale gave only a puzzled look. "Whatever for?"

She continued to duck her head, one foot on a higher step and ready to take off. "That is... I am to change your bed-linens, sir."

"Change my... but I've been here not three days! Surely that isn't necessary, and will only be quite the inconvenience on your part to be changing them so often." Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, wondering whether these wealthy persons were really so liberal with their clean water, that they would have their servants wash off their laundry hardly before a speck of dust could settle on them.

Henrietta flushed red in the face. "F-forgive me, sir! Please do not trouble yourself with it. I-I must go now!"

She bowed clumsily and fled up the stairs as speedily as her small feet could take her.

Aziraphale stood by the banister, staring after her in shock. "How very strange..." he muttered to no one in particular.

  
  


*******

The tranquil reprieve which he'd gotten at being able to dine alone offered his mind just what it needed. There was still Agnes Nutter's invitation to wait for, and though it gave him slightly anxious spirits (to think that there still was the possibility that she would not hold up to her promise), it did nothing to hinder his ability to enjoy his solitary affair. His lunch of cold meats and undiluted tea had set him greatly at ease, and when he'd looked out of the window to find pale skies and no signs of wet ground, he'd grabbed his book and ventured out towards the grounds at the back of the house.

The grounds of Crowley's residence were a little larger than he had anticipated of a London townhouse. Though, he conjectured, they could not have been half the size of the grounds in his home estate, it was still considerably expansive and well-maintained. Hedgerows arranged in a simple maze were scattered in the center, and Aziraphale walked right into it while he held his book, venturing deep until he reached a black marble fountain erected in its heart. For a while, he sat on the edge and flipped a page from his book, until a cool drop landed on one of the words with a patter. 

Frowning, he looked up to the skies, squinting as more droplets of rain steadily sailed to the ground. He slammed his book shut, tucking it within the safety of his overcoat, to run off in the direction of the maze's exit--only to realise that he did not recall which path he'd taken on his way in.

With a loud groan, he ran towards the exit which was nearest him, turning into sharp corners and twice meeting with dead ends. When at last he managed to get himself out, his hair was falling flat over his forehead and he found himself in an altogether different portion of the house.

It appeared that he had ventured near the servant's quarters, a little ways off into the area which led down into the kitchens. Rain fell steadily from above, and he was surrounded by lines from which various pieces of clothing and sheets had been hung. Around three or four maids scattered in all directions, scrambling to get them off before they could get drenched (quite late for that now, judged Aziraphale inwardly).

Though their movements were rattled, they appeared to be in mid-conversation. Aziraphale, not wishing to be found eavesdropping, was about to turn away from them when he heard the mention of his own name.

He could catch only slivers of the conversation, interrupted by the pitter-patter of the increasingly growing rain. He concealed himself by one of the carpets which were, up until a few minutes ago, having the dust beat out of them, and made no movement while the maids walked past him on the other side.

"I've not seen him around here, but who d'you think he is? He's sure to be _someone,_ at least."

"An Honourable, I'd swear it! I know an aristo's son when I see one! And you can't really expect the master to be picking them out any less than that."

"I don't know… For a face like _that_ , I'd not be shocked to see him settle for a commoner."

"To be sure, he's certainly very pretty. _But_ it wouldn't be the first I've heard of some country-dwelling younger offspring, come to squander away their fortune off in Newmarket."

"And very sly he is, too. I reckon the allowance must not be very liberal."

Aziraphale gasped and waited for their voices to fade off into the distance. He had been a fool! What had he been thinking, agreeing to this trip? He should have exercised more caution. After all, for what other reason would wealthy rakes put up houses in London, if not for the very impression that the staff had gotten of him? Moreover, why on earth did Crowley neglect to clarify to his staff the true nature of their relations before their arrival? With a steeled glare set into the scowl on his face, Aziraphale marched off on squeaky, drenched shoes and managed to find his way back into the dining-parlour. 

Wet tracks imprinted themselves on the floor behind him as he continued up the stairs, passing by the drawing-room and turning to another set of doors where he vaguely remembered Crowley's study to be. He gave three loud knocks and waited for Crowley's acknowledgement before opening them with a flourish.

On the far side of the room, Crowley perched on the edge of his desk, his back turned to Aziraphale as he held a letter in his hand, ferociously scanning its contents.

"Make it quick, Newton, I've reason to believe you'll be occupied with demands courtesy of our _dear_ Marquis from Grosvenor Square in just a moment."

"Crowley."

At the sound of an unexpected voice, Crowley whirled around on his desk, his jaw hanging open while he took in the sight of Aziraphale.

"By _Jupiter,_ Aziraphale. You are soaked all over! Why didn't you go ask James to fetch a change of clothes?"

"Crowley, your servants are under the impression that we are _living in sin!"_

Crowley, who had been reaching a hand towards him, halted in all his movements.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"And they think I am some sort of-of aristocrat!" Aziraphale resumed, his shoulders trembling from both affront _and_ the cold drench which stuck his clothes onto every inch of his skin. "No wonder they cannot bear even to look at me. Tell me what is going on. What have you told them?"

Crowley's expression relaxed to his usual calm, a smile slowly playing up his mouth that Aziraphale was very much tempted to wipe off of him. Could he fail to see the gravity of this situation?

"I haven't told them anything that wasn't the truth!" He pushed himself off the desk and went steadily around to the other side to inch closer to him. "Though whatever flights of fancy they choose to entertain is hardly under my control," he said indifferently.

Aziraphale gnashed his teeth in a meagre attempt to subdue his anger. "Then you must rectify this matter directly!"

Crowley waved his hand. "Please. That won't be necessary. I've more pressing matters at hand." With a relaxed grin, he took up the letter he had been reading once again and turned the scrawled-over side towards Aziraphale. "We've been invited to dine with the Marquis of Dowling. How do you get on with dinner-parties, hm?"

"I would not know, for I have never been to one," replied Aziraphale, stiffly.

"Shame. Seems like something you'd enjoy, actually," resumed Crowley. He set the invitation down and rifled through another pile of his letters, completely oblivious to Aziraphale's continuing turmoil. "But no matter. Newton will fill you in on all that you need to know."

_"Crowley."_ The prevailing sharpness in his tone succeeded in getting Crowley's attention once again. Aziraphale steeled himself to keep his voice from rising. "This cannot continue."

"What does it matter?"

"I can't!" Aziraphale paused to swallow against a sudden nerve. "I cannot very well allow your staff to think that I am your fortune-hunting _mistress!"_

"Then you may be at ease, for the boot is quite on the other leg. They say I used my dashing good looks to try and get at _your_ money."

Aziraphale begged to differ, but he supposed that clarifying the very sentiments he'd directly just heard would not really be helping with anything in this discussion. Instead, he groaned loudly. "Pray, tell me _how_ is that an improvement?!"

"For what do we live, but to make complete spectacles of ourselves, and for the staff to make sport of us?"

"Do be more serious." Aziraphale refused to follow the undertone of mirth in his speech. He felt not a spark of it in himself. On suddenly remembering their arrangement and the house in which he, at the very moment, stood, he added: "I am not familiar with all the ways of your lot, but if I have somehow wound up staying in what is actually your _den of iniquity,_ then I at least should have been warned!"

"All right. But tell me, why do you care so much what conclusions they draw when you know you have done nothing so scandalous? These silly notions they have are how they entertain themselves during a long day. And people do not _talk_ here as they do in Tadfield. I hardly know who my neighbours are. It is unlikely to do any real damage on your reputation, and if I summon them all for a correction, not only will it be a _preachy_ affair (which I do so _despise_ ), the instinct to defend will only give them greater cause to believe it to be true."

"And what will happen if you do _not_ summon them for a correction?"

"In all likelihood, they will see in a few days that you and I are not so overly familiar to give any reason to their rumours, and they will realise the truth for themselves."

Aziraphale allowed himself to relax at that, but unwilling to let Crowley completely off the hook, he resumed: "And what of their notion of my being a nobleman?"

"Dressed like that? You could hardly blame them."

"I do have standards!" Aziraphale quipped, his face colouring. "Though, I suppose, that is one matter I can resolve by myself."

"Then I am glad." Crowley smiled, less teasingly this time. He turned his focus back on his letters while he spoke, resolutely avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. "And as for your last concern, about trapping you in my so-called _den of iniquity,_ again you may be at ease. I would not be so improper as to bring a discreet affair into the house set aside for me and my spouse."

Aziraphale was only partly certain that the round of chills that racked his frame came from his soaking clothes. He sucked in a breath.

"This house... is for you and your would-be partner?"

"Of course," replied Crowley, heavily captured by the contents of his letters. His long legs crossed by the ankles in one smooth movement, steady and relaxed even as Aziraphale, who stood ridiculously drenched and dripping on the carpet, felt his heart leap fast into his throat.

"Then you are to leave Tadfield, after your engagement?" 

Here, Crowley cast him a brief look and smiled warmly. "I cannot be expected to establish my own matters under Mother's roof, and I have plenty of business here in town to keep me busy."

Aziraphale attempted to picture it, being back in his bookshop, without expectation of a vivacious Crowley strolling past its doors in a ridiculous ploy to request a new book, and an anchor-like weight dropped in his stomach. Not until today had he realised how much he'd been looking forward to his surprise visits, and to hearing the bursts of stories from his latest adventure.

He smiled shakily at his friend. "We shall all be sorry to see you go, my dear."

Crowley's expression softened in great measure, the corners of his mouth turning down while fine lines creased his forehead.

"I'll not be gone forever, of course. I will have to take over Mother's place, in due time. But I imagine it will not be until many years from now."

_Many years._ He would not see Crowley for many years. Why did the thought of it sink his heart so?

It was not until Crowley had taken steps towards him that he realised that his blurring vision was a result of the full-body shivers now overtaking his form. Crowley stepped close, his hands hovering above Aziraphale's arms, a worried look crossing his face while he did not know where he should place them.

At the last moment, just when he looked on the verge of retracting them, Crowley switched, his long fingers grasping Aziraphale's upper arms and gliding up to his shoulders. They gripped tight, digging into the thick layers of wet fabric, before sliding back down to stop at his wrists.

Aziraphale stared up at him, telling himself to stand very _very_ still.

There was a fleeting moment when their gazes locked, and Aziraphale could swear that there was some confession hanging on the tip of Crowley's tongue. Steady beats thrummed in his ears as he waited expectantly.

Only, as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished, and Crowley stepped back, taking his very warm hands along with him. Aziraphale dug his feet into the ground, that he may be prevented from drawing closer to Crowley's much warmer body, from so meagre an attempt at filling out a void that had been, unceremoniously, carved from his bones.

"I'll go send for James to assist you," whispered Crowley, sternly. He side-stepped away from Aziraphale and hurriedly left the room.

Though the thought had not even faintly crossed his mind, Aziraphale, on finding that he had been left alone, drew close to one side of the room wherein lay a lightly flickering, blazing fire.

*******

The afternoon that remained passed by without event, with Aziraphale having decidedly settled on reading in his room once he had changed into dry clothing. Come dinner-time, he went into the dining-parlour where Crowley was already waiting. They greeted each other amicably, neither speaking of the peculiar moment that had passed between them in his study.

At around the second course, a footman stepped beside Aziraphale's chair and presented a silver tray by his elbow.

"Pardon the interruption, sir, but earlier today you have told me to bring to you at once any letter addressed to your person."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide with shock, daintily retrieving the letter from the tray. Warmly he thanked the footman, and did not wait a moment longer before he tore off the string and unfolded the letter with anxious hands.

"I hope that all is well," uttered Crowley, after the passing of a few minutes.

Aziraphale looked up, beaming gleefully. "It is from Agnes Nutter. She has invited me to meet her at the shop tomorrow."

"Ah, excellent. You have my congratulations at cracking the great Miss Agnes Nutter. Only I will remind you that you are not to go to Soho alone."

Aziraphale was in far too great a mood to be righteously angry. Instead, he re-folded the letter and tucked back into his meal for one bite. Calmly he replied: "I am already familiar with the area, Crowley. I need hardly any help now. And I will take the hack, just like before."

"Even so." Crowley sighed. "It isn't... There are plenty of people. And you... you stand out greatly."

"I am not some _chaw-bacon,"_ Aziraphale replied grimly. 

"I know you are not, Aziraphale."

"Why don't you come with me, then?"

"I can't," replied Crowley. "I have engagements tomorrow that will take me to Bolton Street."

"Ah, only I can't but be curious as to what engagements will derail you from your hunt for the perfect book, however temporarily.”

"Well, Newton has sent out my cards, and my connections at Watier's will be expecting my appearance."

Aziraphale's brows shot all the way up. "You are a member of _Watier's,_ as in the dining club? That cannot be possible!"

"Is it so difficult to believe that I can have connections of respectability?" asked Crowley in a mockingly hurt tone.

Aziraphale laughed softly. "I have heard of it, my dear. It is said to have the finest meals in the country! That it rivals even the best Parisian chefs!"

"Indeed, the Regent spared no expense with the meals."

Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat, hands folded at his chin. "And what must it be like to sit with some of the city's well-known wits?"

"Byron does not do well with a bad hand, and Moore is only marginally less so in his suffering." There was an almost fond gleam in Crowley's eye which Aziraphale could discern, even as they sat on opposite ends.

At once, he softened his look and put on his tenderest tone. "Might there be the slightest chance of you taking me there?" 

Crowley huffed out a laugh, seeing right through his ruse. "I am afraid entry into the establishment is by invitation alone."

He slouched in his seat, sighing. "Oh, _seize it._ I must continue only to dream."

"They make certain allowances towards spouses of patrons, though," Crowley said casually, drawing up a sip of his tea.

Aziraphale gasped loudly, making sure to fix Crowley's attention on him.

"Then what do you wait for, dear boy? Find me such a man, that I may throw the worst of my flirtatious exertions at him!"

Crowley snorted into his drink, setting it down with a deep scowl.

"You are ridiculous."

"And you greatly underestimate the lengths I would go to for the sake of fine cuisine." Aziraphale beamed innocently.

"You eat plenty enough fine food in _here,"_ grumbled Crowley.

"But if your staff is to be believed, I'm not one to be held back from becoming ambitious."

A string of offended noises rung from Crowley's throat. "As if you could reel in a better gentleman than myself!"

"I would not know that _yet,_ though I certainly must test it by setting my cap at someone," returned Aziraphale, relishing in finally gaining the upper-hand in teasing.

"You keep your cap right where it is, Aziraphale. I'll not have you causing any trouble."

"This party we are attending with the Marquis, I expect there will be plenty more nobles there?"

To his surprise, Crowley made no attempt to further the banter. His knife ground deep into his meat, slicing and tearing, though he did not take in a single bite.

Aziraphale awkwardly cleared his throat. "I-I am sorry. Really, my dear, I've not had so much fine food until I arrived here. You have been a most gracious host."

Crowley barely acknowledged his gratitude.

"I'll send Newton to accompany you to Soho tomorrow."

As Aziraphale figured it was best not to protest it, that was the last thing uttered by either of them for the rest of the evening.

  
  


*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little filler update! Thank you for reading ❤️


	7. Quite So Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale grows in familiarity with occasions of absences prolonged and the making of amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thrilled yall seemed to enjoy a sliver of jealous Crowley from the previous chapter! Thanks so much for all the lovely words <3
> 
> And for those who loved Newt's presence from a few chapters ago, you're in for a treat

While the passing of little over a week from the date of Agnes Nutter's invitation did little to tide Aziraphale's worries over not being deemed the rightful owner of the _Tales,_ he did find thorough satisfaction in being so involved in her shop. It was not so much that he missed running his own small place back in Tadfield (for how could one so readily miss what had been held for years, after parting from it but a few days?), but he found there to be a distinct sense of meaning and comfort in the oddly placed bookshop, ensconced in the vicinity of the busiest streets of Soho. He had visited nearly every day with Newton Pulsifer and, in the process, had gotten greatly acquainted with Miss Nutter's habits. With the same passing of days having taken Crowley away from home on business as well, there were few other matters to occupy his mind.

Only he also found there to be a mystery in how, with the same passing of days, there was something wanting in the overall experience, and how in all likelihood it had mostly to do with Crowley's absence—if absence could even be used to describe it. He and Crowley still saw one another at dinner, but the occasions were brief and the conversation startlingly lacking. In the first few days of Aziraphale's stay in London, he had gone through the most pointedly frank conversations with Crowley, and such conversations did long last in his mind that his thoughts were often led into disarray by the time he had turned over each and every word spoken multiple times, viewing them from all angles. He had experienced the fluttering of a heart beat and the scorching of the softest, fleeting touch, that to now be met with Crowley's near-complete silence could only register to him as the fullest of _absences;_ as an action so deliberately made that he could only have been _avoiding_ Aziraphale—though for what reason, he did not know. And he dearly wished he would cease to ruminate on it. The mystery, he found, was in how it was possible to possess a fondness that would grow in intensity the longer the _absence_ was prolonged. More so in considering where an absence of a more undebatable nature, occurring over much longer a time period and more considerable a distance, had been previously involved and hardly even signified to him. Aziraphale had never felt the absence of a person so starkly so as to crave the sight of a sauntering figure, if only to fill the empty space beside him. He did not miss his bookshop, which he'd long held in his grasp, after only a few days of parting from it. But to be feeling one person's absence after but a few hours apart—and to feel it even _more_ when they were actually in the same room—Aziraphale could find no other name to describe it. With a fierceness he had never known to possess, he terribly _missed_ Crowley _._

He did not know what had caused this rift in their progressing relationship. All he could tell was that Crowley had held himself at a distance since the day he'd inquired about the staff rumours on the nature of their acquaintance. Not that Aziraphale had been always secure in his having Crowley's affection, for despite how the people of Tadfield might have perceived it, he could not see much about Crowley's treatment of him as anything beyond his usual affable, and slightly flirtatious nature. He would not deny, however, that he had allowed himself to indulge in Crowley's warm attentions, and perhaps it might have been that very act which had gotten him into this situation—left him high and dry, almost bereft, when at once they had been taken away. Aziraphale had never hoped there to be much further development into his relations with Crowley, for he had always known that Crowley was to attach himself to another. But, in earnestly speaking to the confidence of only his heart and mind, he would own there to be a fraction of him that felt he had a rightful claim to such attentions that Crowley had shown him, in bits and pieces, over the course of the past couple of years, and that he had grown quite accustomed to them.

It was a belief of all absurdity. Logically, Aziraphale knew that he had no such right to any portion of Crowley, for neither was he his spouse nor his lover, but merely a small-town shopkeeper whose assistance he'd requested. Crowley was to be married, and whether that connection was to arise from the most passionate of warm feelings or simply from convenience, Aziraphale ought to heed the boundaries that would form when he inevitably committed himself to another. With trepidation, he found that it was much easier to thoroughly fall in love with Crowley than he'd initially believed. Crowley was witty and interesting, prepossessing of a certain magnetic charm that drew everyone's admiration. In getting to know him more, he also had a well-intentioned heart which, under the right circumstances, could be unexpectedly generous. If Aziraphale had been bewitched by his handsome countenance before, this type of attraction posed a far greater danger, were he not to carefully guard his heart.

So he was left only with the solution of endeavouring not to dwell on it. His goal has always been to obtain the _Tales,_ and that was where his satisfaction would lie—not on Crowley or his gallant extensions of hospitality and flattery. Such attentions were all fleeting, and he realised this even more as he stepped on the pavements of Soho on a particularly rainy day, the soles of his thin leather shoes horrendously caked with mud.

"James will be in a horrible fit when he sees the state of my shoes," Aziraphale stated glumly to Newton as they entered Agnes Nutter's shop. "These are much too fine to be ruined by something as trivial as gloomy weather."

"I have to agree. I thought you would have been sensible enough to wear your walking boots instead, knowing that these dark clouds have been up since this morning."

"I did suggest that, but James was adamant about my wearing these shoes instead. Said the boots did not bode well for my silhouette."

"Then I should say you need not be so glum, for it appears that James has brought this on himself."

Aziraphale chuckled lightly. "Well, that is a reassurance," he said jokingly.

"And speaking of fine clothing, I expect tomorrow you will be well-dressed for the Marquis's party."

"Oh? I wonder at that," remarked Aziraphale with some forced casualness. "I have been informed, at first, of the occasion. But, um, are you-are you quite sure that Crowley still wants me to be there?"

Newton's face drew into confusion. "Of course, Mr Fell. He has specifically mentioned that you will be in attendance."

"Right, yes," said he, nodding. "Only it seems that he has been, um, _elusive_ as of late."

"Has he now?"

"I worry, dear boy, that I might have done something wrong, but he would not speak to me about it."

"In all honesty, I can't imagine anything that you can do to wrong him."

"How very sweet of you to think that, but I assure you that people often get the impression of my being much kinder than I actually am," replied Aziraphale humbly.

"Oh no, I was not alluding to your kindness." There was a spark in his eye that Aziraphale did not understand. "But where Mr Crowley's concerned, I firmly believe you capable of getting away with anything."

Aziraphale thought it rather nice that Crowley's staff had great faith in his good-nature. 

Here was the point where they parted. Newton settled into the corner desk in the shop that he had commandeered from their first visit, and Aziraphale ventured off upstairs where he knew he would find Miss Nutter. The next few hours passed amicably, where Aziraphale busied himself with assisting Miss Nutter, and Newton with setting up his own office on that corner desk, tending to his own duties.

A short reprieve was allotted when Miss Nutter proclaimed an intention to step out momentarily to meet with her surgeon, and Aziraphale took this moment to check up on Newton. 

The young secretary had fists in his hair, poring over swathes of paper scattered on the desk. Alarmed by his distraught expression, Aziraphale sidled up by the desk and scanned the papers with curiosity.

"Are these... bill statements?"

Newton jerked up in his seat, startled by the sound of his voice. "Oh! I did not see you there. And yes, yes they are."

"My child, I did not know you were quite so under!" Aziraphale lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Might I suggest you talk to Crowley about helping you with this scrape?"

Newton gaped for a few moments and shook his head. "Considering that these are _Mr Crowley's_ statements, I am not sure he'd take kindly to it."

Aziraphale went slack-jawed. "Crowley is under crushing debt?"

"No! Well, technically, yes, I mean—that is to say this is, _technically,_ mountains of debt," rambled Newton aimlessly. Aziraphale took a moment to process this. "But it is not that he does not have the means to pay them all back!"

"Then why on earth hasn't he paid them?" Aziraphale took up one of the statements, eyes going wide at the exorbitant price labeled for a pair of gloves. "Dear me, do not tell me this is why we did not have to pay a penny when we were out in Bond Street!"

"Mr Crowley doesn't carry much blunt with him," explained Newton. "It is not the fashion for gentlemen of his station to be handing money to shopkeepers."

"I assure you, Newton, that he has handed _me_ money on numerous occasions."

"It is not the fashion in _London,"_ resumed he. "He buys what he wants, and the shops send in their statements for me to handle later on."

Aziraphale was properly shocked as he looked at the prices indicated on several more statements, with a few even dating from over a year ago. "How could they stand to lay this much amount to credit? This is unbelievable."

Newton chuckled. "I think you'd be surprised at how much Mr Crowley gets away with merely for being heir to a significant fortune."

"Bag of moonshine," declared Aziraphale haughtily. "I would never allow him to get away with this."

"You sell him books, sir, not fashion," replied Newton. "Were you, perhaps, a boot-maker or a tailor, you might find the word of a trendsetting tulip such as Mr Anthony Crowley worth more business than what his credit amounts to. They think it a symbiotic relation."

"This is the strangest thing I've ever heard."

"Relax, Mr Fell. Mr Crowley does not seek to abuse this privilege. He's not very good with summarizing his accounts, hence my current state of distress, but he has never made an attempt to cheat his way out of them. These shopkeepers will all get the money they are due."

"Well I know _Crowley_ , at least, is fair. But it is not so comforting for me to know that the wealthy are granted even more opportunities to hoard items of luxury that are virtually inaccessible to everyone else." 

"Hmm. Very true, sir, I cannot contest that." Newton picked up one statement from among the pile and bared its contents for Aziraphale to see. "But if you see here, it is not only the wealthy that are granted the privilege. This statement from Mr Weston, from the day of your fitting, charges fifteen percent less than the usual rate he charges Mr Crowley."

Aziraphale tilted his head in confusion. "And what point is that supposed to make?"

Newton poorly repressed a grin. "That they also give allowances for those who dare to possess a very pretty face."

Aziraphale flushed deep red, slowly setting aside the statement and placing it back on the pile.

"Well," said Aziraphale, setting up another chair to sit on the other side of the desk. With a determined hand, he picked up a few sheets of paper and studied them. "I have a bit to fritter away at the moment, and while I have never had a job like yours, I am an experienced tradesman who can easily handle his numbers."

A smile bursting with relief appeared on Newton's face. "Oh god, please. I do so despise this part of the job. Mr Crowley makes everything so needlessly complicated!"

The two of them made steady work of the piles of statements, with Aziraphale doing the bulk of the problem-solving. After a while, though, as Newton continued to share anecdotes of his job, Aziraphale curiously asked: "How did you come to know Crowley?"

"Oh, did you not know that yet?" Newton huffed a small laugh. "We are distantly related cousins."

Aziraphale gasped. "Really? Then I wonder how you found yourself in this situation."

"I am related to the ignoble side of his family," said Newton. "I was hired by his father when I came of age, only when the incumbent Mr Crowley took up the house in Berkeley Square I didn't expect to be doing the double duties of both a secretary _and_ a steward." Newton smiled grimly. "But I've not much to complain about, I suppose. I have adequate bachelors' lodgings and a stable job."

"You do seem quite overworked, though."

"Yeah, I suppose. Which is why I am readily looking forward to his nuptials. With him settling fully in Berkeley Square, I'd be relieved of almost half my duties."

"Oh, I can imagine. He will have no means of escaping his responsibilities then."

"What I can only hope for," said Newton, shooting him a strikingly pointed look, "is that he will choose a spouse who is extremely sensible with numbers. _That_ will basically put me out of a job."

A gust of breath hitched in Aziraphale’s throat, and in a deeper voice, he stated: "I worry my dinner jacket is not nice enough."

Newton's face shifted to being confused. "Sorry?"

"For the Marquis's dinner, I mean," supplied Aziraphale. "It seems like something I should have prepared for better."

Newton raised a brow. "You mean you wish to make amends with Mr Crowley."

"Perish the thought," he quipped, averting his gaze back to the statements. "...But supposing I _do_ wish to make amends... do you not agree proving myself worthy of standing with him in a significant party to be just the thing?"

Newton grinned knowingly. "I do agree, and have already taken care of it. You'll find Mr Weston's provisions in James's hands by tomorrow morning."

Aziraphale beamed. "You are a right blessing, Newton Pulsifer."

*******

It took him well over an hour to be dressed for the Marquis's dinner-party, the task proving to be more arduous than any of his and James's previous undertakings. In spite of that, Aziraphale noted with great satisfaction that the end result more than lived up to their efforts. On opening the parcel from Mr Weston, he had been surprised to find, in place of the usual dark coat and crisp white waistcoat, an ensemble of full pastels. The most ordinary article within it was the white waistcoat, commonly worn by attendees of such occasions as he was to grace, only it had ornate golden embroidery around the edges and buttons trimmed with the same gleaming gold. His coat was the same light brown shade as his breeches, clean and tastefully made to suit his figure. It had him in a shape much fuller and taller, looking more thoroughly composed. His cravat was tied into an elegant waterfall that ruffled below his chin, and the stockings around his calves were so fine they were almost the milky shade of his skin, and on his feet were a pair of white satin, heeled shoes which caught the candlelight most becomingly. 

James stifled a gasp when he had finished putting on all the clothing. "Mr Fell, not to wave my own flag, but I think this to be my finest piece of work yet."

Aziraphale appraised himself on the looking-glass with a quizzical eye. It was true. He had never before worn any clothing this fine, and with most people sure to appear in black coats, he knew he would well stand out in the party. Still, there was something lacking—a small accent that would really put it all together.

"One moment."

He bounded off from the closet and disappeared into his bed-chambers to rummage through his valise. James looked on curiously until he took out a small velvet box. With a sigh, Aziraphale ran his hands over the smooth surface—an heirloom left to him by his mother. He took it everywhere with him, if only to take comfort in the memory of the few items she had left. 

But not once had he considered that he would one day wear it himself.

"Mr Fell?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath and carefully pried the box open, turning it to face James, who at once went wide-eyed and had to stifle another gasp at seeing its contents.

"Quickly, James. Help me put these on."

*******

Whatever queasiness Aziraphale might have felt about his slightly daring endeavour had all but vanished by the time that he'd stepped off the stairs to meet with Crowley. He had not been entirely certain whether his plan would work, and had been moderately anxious during the entire period of his preparation, but he quickly noted the shift in Crowley's expression when they locked eyes as he took measured steps down the staircase, and a curl of deep satisfaction reigned in his gut.

There was something in the way that Crowley roved his gaze over his form, in a manner that raked on him from head to toe, that had always made him feel quite indulged. He could not deny that he relished in the feeling of being under Crowley's scrutiny, that he took pride in the way Crowley viewed him as though he were the room's greatest—perhaps even the _only_ —temptation. Part of him simply found joy in being desired by a man he held in high esteem, but a greater portion still deemed it to be the most satisfactory form of revenge.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, he looked up at Crowley and cast him an innocent smile.

"Good evening," he said primly.

Crowley's gaze was locked to the top of his head. "Your hair..." said he, rather shakily.

"Ah, yes." Casually, Aziraphale brushed his fingers over his hair, dotted with artfully placed pearl pins with a lustre that blended into the dusty cloud of his platinum locks. "You need not look so frightened, my dear. These were my mother's pearls. I did not take them out of your accounts. Only think what the servants would make of it!"

Crowley flushed a faint shade while his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, never making a sound.

"No, I-I-I..." Another stab of satisfaction ran through his gut at Crowley's stammering. Crowley shifted on his feet, looking very hesitant to even meet his eye. "You've prepared _really_ well for this."

"You were ignoring me," said Aziraphale, pointedly and with a faintly smug grin. "I did not know how else to grab your attention."

"You have it in full, now." Crowley ducked his head almost shyly, turning to the side and offering his arm.

"Do I?" Aziraphale tucked his hand into Crowley's elbow. Emboldened by his moment of victory, he stepped closer, his chest brushing Crowley's arm before he caught himself and stiffened slightly. _What if he were to feel my quickening heartbeat?_

 _"Ngk."_ Crowley kept his gaze straight ahead, but made no attempt to pull away. Seeming as if he was talking to himself, he muttered: "Looking like that, you're sure to attract a lot of trouble."

"Well, unless you mean to be cross with me again for whatever unknown reason, I'm sure I'll be fine."

Only when they awaited the carriage out front, and the triumph of Aziraphale's moment had faded to a thrumming vestige, did he allow himself to take a good look at Crowley. At his slim-fitted suit, hanging to his lithe form. His almandine hair pushed back, falling into waves around his nape. His honey-brown eyes, looking near-black in the light of the full moon. His sharp cheekbones, clenching taut at every turn of his highly expressive face. 

Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but how Aziraphale loved to look at him.

Even so, he tried not to dwell so much on the meaning of these exchanges, and what the turmoils he was experiencing in Crowley's company possibly meant. This was all a bit of fun, almost an artful game that he and Crowley found mutual amusement in. So, while he could readily enjoy being the object of Crowley's ephemeral attentions, as well as the effortless back-and-forth of their banter, he could not allow himself to think too hard about _why_ exactly he felt greatly satisfied—felt an almost righteous claim, even—at being the person allowed to hang onto Crowley's arm. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the frustrations caused by these two not communicating properly lmao but just to make it clear, though the pacing is a bit slow, at this point it's only been a little over a week since they arrived in London. By modern standards, yes one can just go up and ask the person they like on a date. But by Regency standards (especially in the upper classes) this is waaay too quick for a proper courtship. (The "six weeks in Somerset" line from chapter 1 can be a clue as to the minimum acceptable length of time to propose marriage to someone at the time) so yeah, I'm actually trying to speed things up so much in this case 😂 but anything faster just won't feel like Regency anymore. So yeah, hope that clears a few things up about why Crowley isn't just up and confessing!
> 
> (And Aziraphale's slowly catching up? I guess?? Haha)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this bit
> 
> (And for those who follow both this fic and the oneshot i posted very recently, that's our little gutter secret, alright? Jk 😂)


	8. Redcoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One's first occasion to dine formally with the _ton_ can be a most nerve-wracking experience. Despite that, Aziraphale manages, with only a few blunders along the way.

It was an absurdly short ride to the Marquis's residence. On foot Aziraphale conjectured that the journey could not have taken more than a few minutes, but upon their arrival it came to him at once that the carriage ride was very much a part of the overall presentation. Judging from the looks of the other guests, it was not merely enough to show up in one's finest clothes. They must also show off their coach, the jewel-decked livery of their coachman, as well as the fact that they had brought with them both a footman _and_ a coachman. With how their tall figures stood steadily at the foot of the steps one might even have thought there to be another contest for who brought the most _good-looking_ coachman. 

As Aziraphale stepped off of Crowley's coach, he barely suppressed his amused beam. They were escorted up into the drawing-room, and even there he could barely see across the room from the sheer amount of ostrich feathers and tiaras hanging over half the attendees' heads. A momentary lull commenced upon their entry, but it flowed back into the steady high chatter of more than thirty voices as they all resumed their conversation.

Among the bustle, Aziraphale could feel the pull of a few eyes settled on himself, and it was here that he began to feel a twinge of self-awareness. Without much thinking he stepped, ever so slightly, closer to Crowley's side, a prickle of heat emanating from the scant space between their arms, right down to their barely brushing, finely-gloved hands.

What Aziraphale was _not_ aware of was that the tangible feel of eyes settled on him did not make even half of the guests whose attention he had unwittingly caught, for though most were not looking at him, they were, in fact, talking _of_ him. Across the room was talk of the _'pearlescent beauty'_ who had come alongside Anthony Crowley, but confusion was found equal to enchantment, as none could place exactly who he was, where he resided, or what the nature of his connections were.

"You seem a bit tense," drawled Crowley as he observed Aziraphale whilst he scanned the room. 

"It is quite strange to find myself in a room where everyone in attendance is already acquainted, but for me."

The faintest brush of a finger nudged Aziraphale's own, as though Crowley had been caught in a twitch of a moment where he had, ultimately, decided on retreat. But such retreat did little to resume the regularity of Aziraphale's breathing. 

"There isn't much to know," resumed Crowley, speaking much too calmly. "Even I hardly know who they are. Do not be fooled by their exchanges. These people can hold entire conversations built solely on flummery, without needing to know or like the person they are speaking to."

"Still," countered Aziraphale. "Some sort of briefer would've been nice."

"Well, the Marquis, as well a few others, I know from Watier's. The others I've only ever seen around, might have talked with on occasion, but alas, I've not a very good memory for flummery."

This brought an amused grin out of Aziraphale. "Well, judging from the amount of tiaras I can only guess there to be a fair number of nobles in here. You really do move among the first social circles."

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Next you will be telling me that you are off to dance at Almack's."

Crowley's expression turned instantly sour. "Dear god, no. They have been trying to get me to go for years, but I've no patience for any of it."

Aziraphale turned astonished. "That was supposed to be a joke."

"Then I give you points for accuracy. But no, I've no intention of pitching myself into the marriage market."

"A marriage market?" 

"Everyone knows that dancing at Almack's is akin to birds doing a mating call," said Crowley, sardonically. "It is where the wealthy and desperate go to hunt for a spouse."

"Considering that you are _also_ in the hunt for a spouse, I am much perplexed at your refusal to be _in_ this marriage market." Aziraphale arched up his brows.

Crowley bit his lip to arrest what was a rapidly widening smile.

"You are mistaken. I have no need to hunt for a spouse, that matter has long been settled on. What I am to hunt for is a worthy gift _for_ this person."

"Oh, the book!" exclaimed Aziraphale suddenly, causing a few heads to turn towards him. He ducked his head in embarrassment. "Now that it seems you are not avoiding me, we must resume our search first thing tomorrow. I will not take no for an answer."

"Very well."

"How does one even find spouses in Almack's?" 

Crowley took a moment to glance at him, as though to assess whether he had posed the question in all seriousness. Seeing that he had, in fact, meant it to be serious, he replied:

"The significance of a dance is that it is practically a battlefield, where the goal is to nab the most eligible prize." Crowley was carefully studying him as he spoke. "Like going into the Navy. To be single and agree to dance, at Almack's at least, is to present oneself as prize money.” 

“And what if you come there and do _not_ dance?”

“To refuse to dance when you are expected to do so would be considering your heart already spoken for."

"Oh, how romantic."

"Either that, or you consider yourself ugly, dull, and _entirely_ unmarriageable—and there is always merit, Aziraphale, to a person not blind to their own faults."

The admonishment was ready at the tip of Aziraphale's tongue, only when he dared to look into Crowley's eyes and saw the familiar glint when he teased and hoaxed, it melted away into a fit of light giggles.

In but a short moment, a flutter came to Aziraphale's heart. He found there to be an entrancing look to the lines which crinkled around the corners of Crowley's eyes when he laughed in full. It arrested him, how so simple an act could send him to a frenzy, and his laughter died away while he peered up at Crowley through his lashes.

Crowley's mirth faded as well, diminishing into a softness, a relaxation to his mouth while he drew a fraction nearer.

The interruption thus came in the form of the Dowlings' butler, who at that moment appeared by Crowley's other side.

"Pardon me, Mr Crowley," said he, and Crowley starkly turned to glare at him. "The party will commence soon and you are to escort Lady Jersey into dinner."

A stunned look crossed Crowley's features and he gave the butler a stiff nod before the latter turned and walked away.

A sinking sensation formed in Aziraphale's gut. How could he have forgotten? Rank and precedence, of course, dictated who was to accompany who in events such as these. He had fully expected to remain close to Crowley's side for the remainder of the evening. How foolish a belief it was, that he could have allowed himself such a fantasy that had him believing, even for a moment, that his delicate clothes and handsome features could ever bridge the gap between Crowley and himself. 

He would not even be here, were it not for Crowley. These people surrounding him were _Crowley's_ lot, not his own. 

Crowley turned back to face him, a tad awkwardly this time. "Right. I suppose... suppose I should go. Your, um, partner should be here soon."

Aziraphale gave him a weak smile—a frail attempt to calm the queasiness of his nerves. "Do be careful not to get nabbed into the clutches of a fortune-hunter, my dear."

The remark elicited a hearty chuckle out of Crowley. "Lady Jersey is a widow who played cribbage with my mother when I was five. I promise to remain at my utmost guard."

Aziraphale laughed softly, firmly pressing his lips together.

"I shall see you later, then," said he, in an almost whisper.

A moment passed where he thought that Crowley would come up with another reply. Instead, he bowed cordially and retreated off to the other side of the room.

Aziraphale followed him with his gaze, smiling sadly. A slight tapping on his shoulder entreated him to turn around.

"I hope I am not mistaken in assuming that you are Mr Fell?"

Before him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in full regimentals. His cropped blond hair combed neat, and his clean-shaven face revealed a strong jaw, and momentarily did Aziraphale wonder why this man had suddenly approached him.

"Yes, that would be me," he kindly replied. "And you would be...?"

The man held out his hand. "Captain Brooke. 14th Hussars." His countenance, Aziraphale decided, was affable enough, so he readily shook the offered hand. "I am to escort you down."

"Ah," remarked Aziraphale, whose eyes flicked briefly in the general direction of where Crowley stood, before returning to his partner. "Splendid. I had desperately hoped not to be paired off with one of those airy nobles," he added, jokingly. Too late, he realised that he had uttered an impudent remark. He had left his tongue much too unguarded around Crowley and Newton, that he had forgotten to school it around the company of others. Panic rose into his throat.

To his surprise, Captain Brooke released a hearty laugh. "Indeed. Last time I attended one of these, I arrived late and was forced to escort Sir Gabriel over there—" he paused to point at a dark-haired man from the right side of the drawing-room. 

"Is he really so unpleasant?" 

Captain Brooke nodded. "Very high in the instep, that man is. And so are his friends."

Aziraphale observed that Sir Gabriel was in the company of two nobles, dressed in multi-layered long gowns and gleaming tiaras. He could not quite place what his impression of them was, but they particularly exuded an air of pomp, as though they stuck their nose up at the slightest sign of inferior company.

"I'm relieved, then," said Aziraphale, and for the briefest of moments he thought he felt the eyes of Sir Gabriel's group. He brushed it off, chalking it down to his own self-awareness. 

The butler stood by the door to announce that dinner was ready.

Captain Brooke offered him his arm, grinning brightly. "So am I. You certainly seem to be the _best_ company of everyone in this room."

Aziraphale could not but flush at the compliment. "You should be afraid of having spoken too soon. After all, you have yet to see me around the company of fine food." He patted his full, round stomach for emphasis, and Captain Brooke laughed again. 

With their arms linked, they took their place along the line of guests, and all made the steady journey down the steps to enter into the dining-parlour.

*******

Where most people of the _ton_ went to dinner-parties for bridging connections and socialization, as well as the hottest on-dit, Aziraphale mostly looked forward to the actual food.

And indeed it far exceeded his expectations.

An array of nearly thirty different dishes spread out over the dining-table, and so greatly ecstatic was he to sample all of them that he could not suppress the wiggles of delight as he took in each morsel. When he had sampled the dishes within arm's reach, he stared longingly at the platters beyond. He worried his lower lip, wondering how prudent it was in such company to stand up and reach far over for a plate of food. Apparently he had not been so great at concealing his inner turmoil, for Captain Brooke (who had, unbeknownst to him, been steadily observing him through the whole affair), grabbed his attention and asked: "Which is it that you want?"

Aziraphale seemed startled at being spoken to. "Oh, not at all. I am sorry, I do not mean to trouble."

"You have had that Friday-face since you finished your cutlets," he replied, sounding very amused. "It's the green goose that you want, isn't it?"

After a moment's hesitation, Aziraphale nodded.

Captain Brooke flashed a triumphant grin and rose from his seat, reaching over to his right to retrieve the platter of green goose that Aziraphale had indeed been eyeing.

Aziraphale held out his own hand, in anticipation of receiving the plate, but Brooke swept it quite out of his way and directly deposited a portion on Aziraphale's plate. And it did not stop there, for he also picked up the silverware and began carving into the meat with a steady hand.

The sectioned goose came apart into a thick red sauce, but Aziraphale could only remain in a state of light confusion while he observed Brooke's ministrations.

"There you are," said his companion, relinquishing the silverware. "Dig in, Mr Fell."

Aziraphale thanked him meaningfully, though he did not know how to feel at the realisation that he had been studied so closely by Brooke for the past couple of courses.

It was unclear exactly how Aziraphale might have taken the realisation of being observed by _one_ gentleman, and we could then only conjecture how he might have reacted had he known that he was, in fact, being observed by yet another set of eyes. Across the table, around three seats off to the side was Anthony Crowley, his brown eyes, hardened to steel, having glared in their general direction from the arrival of the turtle soup. What blasted luck that Aziraphale would be paired with a _redcoat_ of all the damned blasted possibilities. Brooke's bright uniform was a right standout from amongst the sea of attendees, and Crowley was entirely familiar with the charms that a set of well-ironed regimentals could exude. 

_A Hussar. It had to be a bloody_ **_Hussar_** _._

It was no surprise that Aziraphale had caught his eye. Brooke seemed far too attentive to him as they sat down to dine, while Aziraphale seemed equally enamoured by the display of food. Brooke even went so far as to carve a goose on his behalf—a most pathetic exhibit of masculinity if there ever was one. Aziraphale would have to be downright bacon-brained to fall for it. Even so, he sulked in his seat when he could not help noting the presence of smiles and laughter, some lingering looks, and Crowley could do none but glare into the ridiculously large epergne that obstructed more than half his view of the pair. 

He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. This evening was going far and away from how he'd initially thought it would go.

_Damn him and those bleeding pearls._

In this manner he continued throughout the dessert course, and finally until from one end of the table, Lady Dowling stood up and announced her intention to retreat into the drawing-room.

Half the attendees, including Aziraphale and Brooke, stood up also. Crowley, owing to the nature of his connection with the Marquis, was compelled to remain seated.

For a second, he caught Aziraphale's gaze. A soft, graceful smile played upon his wine-coloured lips, and Crowley made a feeble attempt at responding in kind.

A faint blush spread over Aziraphale's cheeks, and he swiftly ducked his head and ventured out of the room.

*******

When they returned to the drawing-room, Aziraphale was shocked to see that all the furniture had been pushed to the side, and a pianoforte stood in one corner. The intentions behind such an arrangement were made clear when Lady Dowling, having tired of the usual card-tables from her last few parties, told them that they were to commence with an impromptu dance. At once, excited chatter filled the room, a few of the younger ones going around already to secure their partners.

"What I can't help but wonder, Mr Fell," said Brooke, while they watched the commotion unfold before them, "is how it is that a mere soldier such as myself could have been paired off with you."

"I know not what you mean," replied Aziraphale. "If it is rank that you speak of, you must know you have all the advantage. Hard as it is to imagine how I wound up _here,_ I merely run a bookshop."

He waited for how the Captain might react, readying a sharp tongue in case the reaction was a crude one.

But he saw in Brooke's expression only one of surprise and slight wonder. "You are hoaxing!" he remarked, and Aziraphale shook his head. "But you-you are so... refined!"

Aziraphale arched up a brow.

"—That is to say, I did not mean that-that people like you could not be refined. Sorry, that came out entirely wrong. Only, you must be well-aware that with the appearance you hold, there's not a creature in the world that would have thought it of your person."

"I suppose I have been told to be so, few times in the past. But I make no attempt to conceal my nature."

"An absolute _stunner_ you are, Mr Fell," remarked Brooke, slightly wistful.

Aziraphale was taken aback by the intensity in his look, and he averted his own gaze back to the forming group of dancers. "Does Lady Dowling often hold speedily-formed balls in her drawing-room?"

"She has a great fondness for music and laughter—two things which are so easily united in a dance," replied Brooke. He held out a hand, palm up, to Aziraphale's chest. "May I request you for the first one?"

Aziraphale stared at the offered hand a moment too long, struck by an offer he had not been expecting. Numerous streams of thought ran in his mind as he scrambled for a way to respond, though he had yet to determine how he _wanted_ to respond, when the doors to the drawing-room opened again and admitted all the remaining guests who had been detained by the discussions in the dining-parlour.

Lord Dowling led the group, and standing to his right was Crowley's slim and highly becoming figure. Before Aziraphale could grant himself a further look, he turned back to face the Captain.

"This is very kind of you, sir," said he, with a smile, closing a hand firmly over Brooke's and gently pushing it back. "Though I find that I am not much in the mood for dancing. But, to be sure, there are a dozen other beauties who would snap you up at a moment's notice."

"But not you." The light dimmed in Brooke's eyes. 

Aziraphale shot him an apologetic look. "No, not me."

Brooke regained his composure, going for an easygoing smile. "Normally I would venture to ask _why_ that is, if you would be inclined to share it, only in this case, I think I already know the reason."

Before Aziraphale could question that last remark, Brooke took his leave and stepped off to speak with a beautiful young girl, who readily took his offered hand.

He was distracted by a burst of laughter from an assembled group that stood behind him. A shiver of distress ran up his back while he fine-tuned his hearing in an attempt to glean what they were speaking of.

He surreptitiously cast a sidelong glance to see that Sir Gabriel was speaking in not-so-hushed tones to his group of friends.

"You would not believe the nerve, Lady Michael," said Sir Gabriel. "Showing up here, looking like he owns the place."

"Do tell us now, Gabriel. What have you found out?"

Sir Gabriel sneered. "A country-born _cit."_

This remark was followed by a couple of shocked gasps.

"Why, to think that you had been worried about being upstaged, Uriel! Upstaged by what is little more than a well-dressed mutt."

"What on earth is Crowley thinking?"

"Oh, I think we _all_ know what he is thinking."

Flickers of white-hot rage shot up in Aziraphale's chest, marring his field of view. For the first time since his arrival in London, he found himself also wondering what had occurred to Crowley's mind that had him bringing Aziraphale to an event that was so clearly beyond his station. Had he been more capable of rational thought, Aziraphale would have doubted his own conclusion, but as the wrath of the moment burned brightly in his body, he could form no other explanation but that Crowley had conceived to _humiliate_ him. 

He cursed himself. What a fool he had been, making quite the spectacle of himself, thinking that he held any sort of bewitching charms over Crowley when in truth he had been no more than a slice of entertainment. A most noteworthy endeavour. Dress up the _mutt_ and watch him dumbly chase his own tail. 

He marched off directly into Crowley's direction, fists curled at his sides.

He knew the intent to be apparent in his expression when he saw Crowley's face transform into one of _fear._

 _"You."_ Aziraphale hurled the word and jabbed a finger to his chest, stepping steadily closer. "You brought me here as a cruel joke! I have _never_ in my life been treated—"

His voice faltered instantly as soon as he got closer, enough that Crowley, in whatever state of panic he might have been induced to, wound an arm around Aziraphale's waist and pulled him close, their chests pressed flush.

Aziraphale released a startled gasp.

"What the hell are you doing?" He said, straight into the underside of Crowley's jaw, his cheeks flaming. "Crowley, we are in _public!"_

Crowley did not lighten his hold (and, Crowley observed with some interest, neither did Aziraphale make an attempt to shove him off). His brows drawn into a frown, he leaned close into Aziraphale's space, their noses grazing for but a fleeting moment, sending a flurry of frenzied butterflies swarming in his belly.

"Are you a bird-wit?" Crowley spat, his mouth tight and grim. "Did you think I would bring you here at all if there was the slightest chance of my being ashamed to be seen with you?"

Aziraphale swallowed nervously, slowly shaking his head. The firm hand grew increasingly hot on his lower back. _He is so close. So close. God help me._

"Then, I—" his voice came out much too shaky for his liking. He took a moment to breathe in and out, his breath fanning on Crowley's cheeks. "Then why did you bring me here, when there is neither need nor expectation of my presence? You could have very well gone to this dinner alone."

Crowley groaned. "You better behave yourself, Aziraphale. I'm to introduce you to Lady Dowling now."

"What?"

Crowley stepped away, withdrawing his arm, but kept the palm pressed to his back while he guided Aziraphale in the direction where Lady Dowling stood. By now the dancing had commenced, and Aziraphale took a moment to be relieved that the dancers proved to be a greater spectacle to draw everyone's attention than his and Crowley's little... _display of proximity._

The real objective, it turned out, was to bridge an introduction between Aziraphale and Lady Dowling, who had a young son just about to enter the schoolroom. She had been for some time on the lookout for one skilled enough to organise a library for his learning, and Crowley had promised to know just the right person. Lady Dowling had been most accommodating towards Aziraphale, who then found himself tasked with a potentially high-profile commission that would go a long way towards solving his financial concerns. (Not even so great a distance as Tadfield from London had deterred Mr Sandalphon from continuing to send in his unpleasant notices _at least_ every three days.)

With the introductions done, as well as an invitation for Aziraphale to call on the Dowlings' secretary so that they may settle on remuneration, Crowley took it upon himself to decide that it was time for them to leave. The carriage ride back to his house, short as it still was, was extremely tense. When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Aziraphale grabbed hold of his arm, halting his further movement.

"I believe I owe you an apology," said Aziraphale, earnestly looking up into Crowley's face. "It was wrong of me to accuse you like that, though you are not entirely absolved of sin, for I did warn you that I do not much like surprises."

Crowley nodded. "What was it that made you upset?"

Aziraphale bit his lip with worry. "I heard a few... choice words and assumptions from Sir Gabriel's group. The words in reference to me, of course, and the assumptions... the assumptions about _us."_

Understanding dawned on Crowley's features.

"You do know that you have proven yourself the superior there, don't you?"

"In what respect?" Aziraphale asked.

"That group which you speak of happens to be known as the most vulgar bunch. Dreadfully uncivilised. They incite more repugnance than respect—for some things rank and money simply do not buy. By remaining composed, you have proven yourself superior beyond what measly standards they use to measure your worth; despite whatever it is that they think of you."

"They do not think of me as anything I am not," supplied Aziraphale, worrying again. He fiddled with Crowley's sleeve, pinching the fabric between his anxious fingers. "I am only a tradesman, of course. I am not ashamed of it, but I did not like how they made me feel, as though I _ought_ to be ashamed of it."

Crowley shook his arm from his grasp, drawing up his hand to clutch at Aziraphale fingers, stilling them. He cradled them under the natural bend, thumb making a sweeping stroke over his knuckles. Aziraphale took in a sharp breath, watching their joint hands with great curiosity, his heartbeat picking up in speed.

"I am sorry I did not tell you what I had planned," said Crowley. "Lately, I have been... finding it a greater challenge to talk to you."

"You need not feel that way."

"I hope you at least enjoyed yourself tonight."

Aziraphale found that he very much had.

"With the notable exception of that one incident, I _have_ thoroughly enjoyed myself. The food was amazing. I would not mind doing it again."

Aziraphale inwardly cursed his slip-up. It was clear to both of them that this had been his first and _last_ formal dinner. He opened his mouth to amend that last statement, but Crowley beat him to speaking first: 

"Hm. Sure looked as if you enjoyed the company of your redcoat as well."

"You mean Captain Brooke?" Aziraphale was befogged by the sudden increased vigour in his look. "Yes, he was exceedingly kind to me."

"Course he bloody was," grumbled Crowley. "I am surprised he did not ask you to dance."

"He did, actually," said Aziraphale, tone becoming endearingly soft.

"What happened?"

"Obviously I declined." Aziraphale did not know if he could endure the burning of his neck for much longer.

A sliver of agreeable surprise found its way into Crowley, his lips parting marginally while he looked to be, all of a sudden, very deep in thought.

"You are aware that Gabriel's lot did not insult you for being a tradesman." Crowley's chin was tipped down, and Aziraphale could readily get lost in the rich warmth of his beautiful lash-framed eyes. 

"What do you mean? It is exactly the thing that I heard them mocking me for."

Crowley shook his head, the movement causing their noses to graze ever so slightly. Their joint hands fell into a relaxed grasp by their sides, Aziraphale’s hand cradled in Crowley’s.

"It is but a cover-up. Ugly heads would hardly own to their own faults," said Crowley, his voice low, breath coming into warm gusts to meet with Aziraphale's mouth. "They were merely holding you accountable."

Aziraphale shot him an astonished look. "What have I done wrong?" His gaze flicked to Crowley's mouth and performed a hasty retreat back to his eyes.

"Not much, but for your audacity to shine everyone down in a room filled with egotistic nobles." Tilting his head, he leaned in to whisper at Aziraphale's ear: "And I did warn that it would land you into trouble."

Aziraphale's eyes drew shut at the shiver than ran down his spine.

Then, Crowley withdrew, taking his touch, and the entirety of his fiery pleasant warmth along with him.

Halfway up the staircase, Crowley twisted back with an almost smug-looking grin. 

"Good night, Aziraphale."

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Hussar is a type of cavalryman. The cavalry was a branch of military known for their very colorful uniforms during Regency. Unlike the other military branches, they did not get themselves into the grimy work. In fact, many regiments chose their participants based on the handsomeness of their features and how well they looked in full regimentals. These footsoldiers wore regimentals when attending balls, and were usually the downer on the plain gentleman's parade, as they were sure to catch the eye of the ladies and secure all their dances. (Think why the penniless and abhorrent George Wickham from Pride & Prejudice succeeded in charming even the witty Elizabeth Bennet, and why Lydia quite literally risked it all to elope with him).
> 
> The Lady Jersey here is not the same as Lady Jersey the historical figure, famous patroness of the esteemed Almack's. I just couldn't think of a name lol (and it can also be a slight homage to Heyer, who loved to include a fictionalised version of Lady Jersey in several of her books set in London)
> 
> I have always had this theory that Mr Darcy has many defining qualities in common with Crowley, so I couldn't resist including a sort of Darcy vs Wickham parallel into this story. As you can see, these Regency fics I write are *extremely* self-indulgent 
> 
> *
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update! We are finally seeing progress with these two! Haha


	9. Four-fold Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few realisations, a few epiphanies, a book found, and a bold move taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Almost broke the T-rating there. Lucky that I caught myself!

A long night in quiet reflection won over the faint enticements of a deep slumber such as to tend to Aziraphale's agitated spirits well into the early hours of dawn. He had never felt more unlike himself, than in the current moment, when all apprehensions were forced to rise through the still silence in his darkened chamber. Not once, in his close to thirty years of life, had he found occasion to ruminate with so excessive an intent on matters deeply-rooted in his own heart. He wished it did not pain him so, for on their own the strictest feelings of love should not come with an iota of displeasure. But where there stood circumstances to complicate such feelings—the affectations of wealth and status which the machinations of human society had chosen to adhere to—the pangs of heartache could not but be deeply felt. 

There now was no doubt in his mind that Crowley held him in high regard. He had been a blind fool not to have seen it until recently, when from the beginning of their trip there had been a warmth of feeling, a constancy of affection that Aziraphale could always rely on, in Crowley's treatment of him; so apparent a preference towards himself above all others, such as to have him feeling a direct strike into his heart that forced him to his own epiphany: that he returned such affections in every respect, in equal measure, and perhaps a sliver of even greater admiration. That every sensation of listlessness, weariness, apprehension, and self-awareness, could all be traced back to Crowley. That he could conceive of no future to satisfy himself, where he would not be involved.

He laughed ruefully, the sound of it amplified into a darkened echo. All the time he'd spent in Tadfield had been so dull, so lifeless. Indifferent and content. He had never known there to be so much more to experience in the world. Not the bitterness of the cruelty he'd been briefly subject to from the dinner-party could have shrouded the gleeful excitement that lingered in his chest, in being so warmly attended to by the one who, for so long a time that it slipped beyond his notice, had come to own his heart. And though a part of him will always be gratified in the knowledge that Crowley's heart must, at least to some degree, also be his, he must undertake great pains in being satisfied that he should never have Crowley's hand along with it. 

With a fierceness of clarity that only passage of time could provide, Aziraphale now saw the trip for what Crowley had intended it to be in the beginning—a final dalliance; a bachelor's farewell. What sort of odd and wealthy creature in the world would choose to marry for love? Only an insipid one, certainly. And Crowley was anything but. If anything, he had time and time again proven himself superior in intellect to the vast majority of the _ton,_ and inwardly did Aziraphale curse himself for having fallen in love with so sensible a person. 

The two objectives over which they had set out for—Aziraphale purchasing the _Tales_ and Crowley looking for the perfect book—were both coming close to an end, and with them also would vanish this fantasy life that he had been living. But though Aziraphale was many things, he was on no accounts a weak person. He would readily face anything, even if tragedy was a certainty. He would steel himself for what was to come, and enjoy what little of it he could. 

And in the morning, he would meet with Crowley, and act as though everything was fine.

*******

In comparison to the Repository, the new shop that Crowley took him to had a more subdued and creditable appearance. On entering, Aziraphale had been gratified to find that there were less magazines and a greater variety of books. In the brink of excitement, Aziraphale had gotten swept in the whimsy of so fine a place that seemed to cater to all his interests, and directly had he gotten lost in his perusal of the great collection. Sometime during his internal adventure, Crowley had wandered off somewhere else, scanning whichever categories of shelving seemed to spark his own interest.

It was here that Aziraphale had found it. 

He held the book in a trembling gasp, as though it weighed twice more than it actually did. The words on the binding had called to him instantly, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. 

' _Measuring the Spoken Word'_

Aziraphale took a deep breath. This was it. He had found the _perfect_ book. 

But the satisfaction at having concluded their hunt would not come to him easily. He dug his teeth into his lip and looked around the room. Crowley stood by some stack of reference books on the mechanics of railways, his brows furrowed in concentration, features starkly handsome as ever—perhaps even _more_ handsome now, as only one so madly in love could view the object of their affection: marginally blind to their faults, and magnifying every level of goodness they happened to possess.

The affliction of his heart entreated him not to give the book to Crowley, but the superior senses of his mind knew that it had to be done. _'The heart has always bested the mind in performance'—_ he laughed mirthlessly. How readily had he believed those words to ring true, when now he was made aware of their solemn fallibility. In this case the mind must prevail, and his mind longed only for Crowley's happiness, however much the consequences of it might pain him. 

He approached the spot where Crowley stood, the book held in his now-steady right hand, while he touched Crowley's arm with his left.

"I have found it."

Crowley turned to face him, his expression unreadable while he eyed the book that Aziraphale held.

"Can I look at it?"

Slowly, but without hesitation, Aziraphale handed it over.

Crowley inspected first the binding then, turning it over in his palms, began to flip through some pages.

"Not a novel this time?" He remarked.

"No. I know you will only find more ways to mock it," said Aziraphale lightly. "It is a poetry book."

Crowley bore his gaze on one of the poems, bringing the page closer to his nose. " _I seek, I hope, I mourn my love..._ Aziraphale, do not tell me this is another of the gloomy ones."

"It is poignant and romantic and absolutely the perfect book for a passionate proposal! Give it more consideration."

Crowley cast him a pointed look, then sighed. He went back to reading. " _I seek, I hope, I mourn my love—_ "

_"—To dash to sea, to hills above."_

Crowley looked up, astonished. "Do you have the _entire_ book memorised?"

"Not the _entire_ book," replied he with a bashful look. "Maybe half of it."

A playful smile appeared on Crowley's lips. "Well, do go on."

Aziraphale frowned, though it was without malice. "You would not appreciate it in bits and pieces. I must circle back, thus:

_I seek, I hope, I mourn my love,_

_To dash to sea, to hills above._

_Through thorny thickets must weave, beware._

_Stolen, though the underneathen sands were,_

_Feathered flocks of flight shall progress,_

_What the passing of sands cannot efface."_

Crowley appeared thoughtful. "I confess it to be very pretty."

"This work sparked an entire movement in the realm of literature when it was first published in 1765. It is not merely _pretty."_

"You seem awfully defensive of it."

"It is one of the finest pieces of art in the written form! You do not do it justice." Aziraphale huffed in desperation.

Amused, Crowley turned to more random pages. "Hm. Let us see this one then:

_Shameless oak! That bears your form,_

_That hugs the grooves beneath your feet,_

_That bears witness to one which from,_

_All praise and enchantments choose to meet—"_

Aziraphale tensed up in early recognition, his cheeks steadily going a dark shade, but Crowley did not spare him a glance, and thus continued to read:

_"Shameless crape! Of silk so fine,_

_Which clings to every curve caress,_

_Which dares brush one so divine,_

_And comfort seek thy lovely—"_

"—That is quite enough!" Interrupted Aziraphale, the tips of his ears burning.

Crowley turned to look at him with a thoroughly vexatious grin. "Very fine piece of work indeed."

"There is more to it than what you see on its surface, Crowley."

"Oh?"

In response, Aziraphale stepped close to his side, pointing a finger where the words 'shameless crape' were printed.

"It says _crape,_ not crepe with an e. Crape as in the fabric of mourning. The person being described is grieving, yet still thought to be beautiful, even in sadness."

Crowley raised a doubtful brow. "And you think it flattering to be told that ‘you may be in grief, never mind that this is the absolute worst time, but you're looking _very_ angelic and I simply _must_ have you in bed’?"

If Aziraphale hadn't been flustered enough before, he sincerely wished for the floor to open up right now and take him six feet under. It was a trivial remark, but spoken from Crowley's lips it had far more of an effect. Though he'd spent much time thinking about him, he had not dared to let his mind wander into _that_ territory before. He went spiraling. Would Crowley be just as attentive a lover as he was under regular circumstances? Would he pin Aziraphale to the bed, or would _Aziraphale_ be so daring as to pin _him_ down? How would so expressive a pair of lips linger on the most intimate parts of his skin?—on his chin, where it would lightly nip, under his jaw, grazing a heated path down his neck and puckering over his clavicle, trailing down still, down to his chest—heaving and wanting, eager and desperate in equal measure—trailing down _still_ , down the swell of his belly, to his softly stirring—

"So obviously I need you to explain to me what all this means, because I can barely glean anything beyond the surface." Crowley himself halted the spiral—ehm, _accretion_ of unseemly thoughts. He scanned a few more poems and groaned in frustration. Mercifully, he did not look at Aziraphale, who was now flustered beyond measure of any semblance of dignity.

Aziraphale made an attempt to recollect himself.

"These poems are the joint effort of two anonymous authors simply named _William_ and _T.C_. It is said by scholars that they were madly in love, only their families forbade the union. They then proceeded to communicate discreetly through passionate poetry, most of which were eventually collected to form this book." He paused when there was a change in Crowley's expression, but seeing that he had nothing to say, continued: "The last ten poems were written by T.C. after William succumbed to illness, and his movingly poignant depiction of grief, so universally relatable across all backgrounds, caused a revolution in the world of writing."

On returning to look at Crowley, there seemed to be a remark ready at his lips, but he appeared reluctant to unleash it.

"Do tell me what you are thinking," said Aziraphale.

Crowley tilted his head in interest. "What is it with your obsession with forbidden romances?"

Aziraphale balked. "I am _not_ obsessed with forbidden romances!" 

Crowley chuckled openly, stepping slightly closer to loom at him. 

"No, no. The more I consider it, the clearer it becomes. If I go back to all your recommendations that I've collected the past couple of years, they all involve a forbidden love affair, in one form or another."

Aziraphale was ready to deny it again, only the same epiphany came to him a second later. His eyes went wide. "Why some of the best works of literature happen to include a component of that theme is not my own doing. For that you must speak with the writers and not myself."

"Is it so difficult for you to believe that _love_ can be so readily offered?" Crowley said, his tone deep, enunciated in a distinct drawl. "Even the forbidden fruit in the Scripture hung off of low branches, ripe for the taking. It is impossible for love at all times to be forbidden. For most, in fact, they need only to look around."

"I am _not_ obsessed with forbidden romance," asserted Aziraphale, rather weakly.

Crowley's smile turned fond. And handsome, added Aziraphale as a mental afterthought. _Strikingly_ handsome. 

"But I do think there is merit in this recommendation," said Crowley, closing up the book and waving it casually. "I think we've found the perfect book."

"Good." Aziraphale spoke in a wavering voice. "I cannot think of a better one to suit your purpose." The smile that he gave Crowley did not reach his eyes.

"Then that is settled. Come along, Angel."

Aziraphale stammered dumbly at the unexpected monicker. Unable to suppress the endless bouts of embarrassment that had been attacking him in waves, he scowled furiously while Crowley laughed some more.

"Absolutely do _not_ call me that!"

*******

With the purchase of the book finalized, they stepped out onto the streets, and only then did Aziraphale realise that they were not so far from Agnes's bookshop, where he was intending to proceed directly after.

"Where will you be off to now?" he asked Crowley as they started walking.

"I am to go to Watier's again, though there is still some time before I _have_ to be there. And you?"

"I think I shall visit Agnes Nutter. It is not so far from here."

"Ah."

Aziraphale raised a taut brow and glanced at him. "I can handle the journey alone, Crowley. I've been around this area numerous times now."

"Right, right." Crowley held his hands up in surrender. "I was only to ask whether you'll allow me to walk with you."

A curl of delight trickled in Aziraphale's chest, radiating steadily and giving way to an uncontrollable grin. "If you must, then."

As they resumed their walk, Aziraphale wondered when they had drifted closer. Their arms brushed at every step, a comforting steady warmth blossoming and contrasting with a gust of a cool breeze.

Naturally, he recalled the sensations from the night before, of Crowley's hand around his, and when it was pressed to his back, decidedly still for long moments. Regrettably, they had both been wearing gloves, but the barriers had been rendered flimsy by the undercurrents their touches induced. He wondered what would happen if he were to be so bold now, in the light of day and in open sight, and take hold of Crowley's hand, cradle it warmly in his. 

In the scenario he imagined, Crowley would not refuse him. He would say no words of denial, and would squeeze Aziraphale's hand even tighter in his grasp. It was lovely and safe, inside the workings of his head. But he knew that was only because his imagination ran only so far as to draw from events that had actually happened, and there had yet to be a case wherein Crowley had denied him anything.

They were nearing their destination, Agnes's shop coming into view, and Aziraphale, unwilling to part just yet without having spurred another stimulating conversation out of his companion, turned to face him and spoke: "If you knew you were going to your dining club today, you could have skipped the meal this morning." They had dined together before their departure, during which Aziraphale recalled Crowley taking in a decently-sized portion of his meal.

Crowley shook his head. "It does not signify. I won't be dining at the club today. We're to play cards."

Aziraphale stumbled a bit in his steps. Gambling was not so unfamiliar a concept to himself, and he knew it to be a hobby that was near-universally indulged. But he had, far too often, heard the tale of the _kind_ of gambling that went on around this specific lot, where the wealthiest, most ramshackle bang-up coves met under one roof. Entire fortunes traded at hand, lost in the curse of one foul-played game. Debts of honour never repaid, securing one a journey straight to prison. The distress in his features must have been apparent, for Crowley huffed out a laugh.

"What? Have you no faith in my skills?" Crowley stared openly at him, his mouth widening. "Come, Aziraphale, do not give me snuff. Everyone does it."

"I'm not to give you snuff, Crowley. And I am sure you are a fair player, but, I have heard of some stories about how these affairs usually unfold in... in places like that."

Crowley's mouth quirked up. "You are worried that I will lose."

"What if you are to lose _everything?"_ Aziraphale exclaimed, his walk stuttering to a complete stop. "It is a possibility. Are _you_ not worried what will happen then?"

Crowley stopped walking as well, one hand coming up to stroke his chin in a mockery of a man in deep thought. As usual, he regarded Aziraphale with a casual amusement that ill-fitted the graveness of their conversation.

"What will happen, I suppose, is I will be booted straight off the marriage market. I'll be ugly, Aziraphale. So _very_ ugly. Ineligible in the eyes of all." 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "Now do be more serious."

"A man could not be more so." Crowley gave him a very serious-looking nod, for emphasis. "You greatly underestimate the beautifying capabilities of a bag of funds and large property. You've seen the wonders they work on a bacon-brained slow-top like Gabriel."

Unable to get through to him, Aziraphale huffed and resumed his walk.

"Aziraphale, you worry too much." Crowley fell into step beside him, laying a hand on his elbow to keep them astride. "But I am under no such stress. I have the luck of the angel on my side, after all, and you have sent no less than four smiles in my direction since breakfast. By that logic, my luck must be four-fold."

Puzzled, Aziraphale stopped walking again. He gaped hopelessly at Crowley. "Luck of the _what?"_

Crowley gaped right back. "You did not know."

"Know what?" Aziraphale would have crossed his arms over his chest, were it not for Crowley's hand still clutching him above the elbow. He did not dare to move it.

"Luck of the angel. _Your_ luck," explained Crowley. "In Tadfield that is what they say. That your smiles have the power to right a day gone wrong, or bring blessings into the unknown future. How-how are you unaware of this?"

"I am not sure," replied he, astonished. "My smile?"

"I have heard it said there to be something charming with your mouth, whether you do or do not speak. I am pretty sure I've mentioned that to you before, only now that I know you did not know _this_ , I realise it might have sounded very strange."

"You are always at least a little bit strange," replied Aziraphale earnestly. "One oddity after another just eventually normalises all of them."

Crowley chuckled. "Do you believe now that I will be just fine?"

Aziraphale flushed. "Not quite. I have heard that the gentlemen in these clubs can be quite ruthless. Even a four-fold luck might not cut it." 

"There is always that possibility," conceded Crowley. "But we cannot sow our rewards without first having entertained the detrimental risks."

Aziraphale tugged his arm free of Crowley's grasp, but only long enough so that he may wrap his fingers on Crowley's wrist. Crowley glanced instantly at the renewed hold, but before the inquiry of surprise could be released from his throat, Aziraphale hauled him along and marched them into the recess of the nearest narrow alleyway.

Away from view of people passing by, Aziraphale laid a hand to Crowley's chest, gently pushing until his back hit a brick wall.

He looked up, his heart working in rapidity, the throbbing mirrored in the sensation pressed against his fingertips. Crowley stared at him, shocked and thoroughly uncertain.

"Aziraphale...?"

He chose not to respond. Very steadily, he went up on his toes, leaning in, ignoring sight and going in blind. With his eyes closed, time seemed to slow, a second taking forever to pass, and someone's breathing hitched—he was not quite sure which one of them was it—culminating in the barest brush of his lips to Crowley's cheek.

He drew back down instantly, fixing his gaze to Crowley's neck, where the exposed skin on top of his cravat began to turn a burning shade of red.

"In... the spirit of keeping you within marriageable conditions," said Aziraphale, blushing fiercely and keeping his voice level. "An odious outcome it would be, for this whole trip to have been for naught."

He took a step back, and when he allowed himself a glance at Crowley's face, found that his friend was holding a stunned hand to his cheek. His only response was a meek nod.

A flicker of satisfaction was lit in his chest, even as he shyly returned his gaze to the open streets.

"I think that I can resume the walk on my own," he said to Crowley, quite incapable of a proper leave-taking. The casual wave he tried to give ended up looking more the fashion of an awkward hand cramp. "I'll see you in a bit."

With that, Aziraphale hastily made his retreat.

Crowley held himself still for a few moments longer, frozen in a spell-bound space. But steadily did a smile comically wide slide its way on his face, and when he'd partially recovered he resumed his own journey.

He returned to Berkeley Square an hour before dinner, satisfied, slightly amused, and his personal accounts increased by a healthy two thousand pounds.

*******

Aziraphale seemed to be floating above ground while he continued his walk. His mind kept replaying the look on Crowley's face after his little stunt, and even the very recollection of it sent him to a wild flutter. The smile on his face would not go away, and few other people who passed him by smiled back in good-nature. Everything in the world was perfect and beautiful. Everything so right and faultless. He held onto these sensations with the heavy grasp of a man so besotted, and when at last he arrived by the front doors of Agnes's shop, he took a breath of air and dared, for a moment, to hope that everything would somehow work out.

He pushed against the doors. 

Snapping back to reality, he pushed them again, harder this time.

They did not budge.

He peered through the glass. Inside, it was dark and awfully deserted.

  
  
  


*******

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaa I can't believe we're so close to the end now! Thanks so much for everyone reading and following this fic. Please do let me know what you think! ❤️


	10. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingredients needed: Flowers, chocolates, a garden, and a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to acknowledge my wonderful beta Stef (crepesandoysters) because this fic has deep fried my brain from writing the whole thing in this unnatural language to thinking of the plots of the mentioned books and writing some damn sappy poetry even though I'm not a fan of poetry myself that I just completely blanked out in having to write an Agnes-style prophecy, and she swooped in to come to my rescue with this one!

The affairs which rendered Aziraphale at a complete loss did not resolve themselves with an explanation until the following morning, when a footman approached Aziraphale shortly before lunch with the day's post. Aziraphale carried his missive with him into the dining-parlour, where sat Crowley and Newton on the far end, already tucking into their meals and talking of personal business.

Both gentlemen at the table were alerted to his entry and, on looking up, were met with an arresting sight.

Aziraphale's broad figure stood at the entryway, slowly approaching his own seat. His white curls were in massive disarray, the redness of his eyes subdued only by the dark circles below them. Far from the usual impeccable state of his dress, his cravat was rumpled, and a sliver of muslin came untucked from beneath his waistcoat.

Crowley drew up an assessing brow. "Have you and James had a _squabble?"_

Aziraphale took his seat and, without sparing him a single glance, took from his lap a newly delivered letter and pulled at the strings. 

"I have not been sleeping well as of late," he replied curtly. "And I dismissed James's services today."

Crowley and Newton exchanged equally perplexed looks. In silence, they allowed Aziraphale to read his missive.

A subtle shift of a breathy exhale drew Crowley's attention. Having been finely attuned to Aziraphale's reactions recently, the sound—subtle though it was—seemed to him like a gunshot. For all his softness and open glee, Aziraphale did not have a resolve that was easily marred. So when he saw that Aziraphale had the faintness of a scowl to his face and a deathly-clamped grip on the parchment, Crowley could not but be alarmed that he appeared to be in great distress.

"Aziraphale, is everything well? Who is it from?"

The blond seemed to have forgotten that he was not by his lonesome. His bright hazel eyes, fraught with emotion, met Crowley's.

"It is from Anathema."

Crowley nodded. "Has there been some trouble in Tadfield? With your shop?"

"No, none at all. Everything is fine, but..." Aziraphale drew his stern gaze back to the letter, as though to confirm that the words it contained had not somehow changed in the five seconds he had managed to look away from it. "She is congratulating me, for having purchased the _Tales."_

Crowley shot him an astonished look. "You did not tell me you have purchased the book. That's enough cause for celebration, do you not think?"

Aziraphale looked grim. "The thing is, Crowley, I did _not_ purchase the _Tales._ Agnes hasn't sold it to me."

A wave of tense silence passed through the room. Aziraphale breathed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Has there been a misunderstanding?" Asked Newton, rather optimistically.

Aziraphale threw him a stony look. "Not likely. I went to her shop yesterday and found it locked and deserted."

The signs of distress on his features were subtle, but they weighed like an anchor in Crowley's chest.

"Aziraphale," he began, though he was unsure what words he could safely utter following his name. He swallowed. "I am certain it is just a mishap. Do get some food in you first—"

Aziraphale pushed back his seat, rising from the table with a stern brow.

"I find that I do not have much of an appetite. Excuse me. I have some letters to write."

He did not heed any of Crowley's calls as he directly stalked out of the room.

"What on Jupiter has happened?" cried Crowley, puzzlingly. 

"Sir." Newton faced him, equally puzzled, though his confusion was tainted by a layer of doubt. "Has Agnes Nutter really sold her precious book?"

Crowley took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Dunno. She might have."

"But how? How could she have sold it to anyone other than Mr Fell? Who could even be worthier than—" he halted his speech, a breathless chuckle stuttering past his throat, and widened his eyes towards Crowley. "Do not tell me that _you—"_

Crowley did not wait for him to finish. He shot up from his seat, relinquishing the silver from his hands. In but a couple of seconds, his lanky form was halfway to the door.

"Send for my carriage, Pulsifer."

*******

A knock on the door interrupted Aziraphale's train of thought. He elected to ignore it, and kept still on his position by the open window, fiercely sulking gaze fixed on the setting sun. 

The knocking continued, more persistent this time. The pounding echoed as thumps in his head, and with a final weary sigh, he stood up and reluctantly wrenched it open.

"Mr Fell." Newton stood by the corridor, solemn yet faintly disconcerted. "Mr Crowley is asking if you will be coming down for dinner."

Aziraphale's shoulders hunched forward, an act of one most wearied in spirits. "I would like to be left alone."

"But, sir, you haven't eaten a full meal since this morning."

"I can manage," he replied, his voice tight. "Tell Crowley that I thank him, but I would like to be left alone."

Newton gave an obedient nod. Even so, he made no move to relieve his presence from Aziraphale's doorway.

"Has there been any news?" Asked the secretary.

Aziraphale turned to stare down at his hands. "I would not know. I have sent out a response to Anathema, my assistant. I sent a strongly-worded note to Miss Nutter as well."

"I see." 

An inkling of curiosity rose up in Aziraphale and despite himself, he said: "I am surprised that you have not yet gone home."

"Yes, ah, Mr Crowley and I have plenty of matters to discuss today," replied Newton, beaming with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Quite a lot."

Aziraphale had not the inclination to inquire beyond that. He nodded.

"You two have a good evening, then." He retreated into the room and shut the door.

*******

The following morning, Aziraphale stirred awake, first to the sound of rustling objects, followed by the scent of thick sweetness in the air.

Some more signs of movement, a scuffling of footsteps, emanated from somewhere near the end of his bed. He forced his eyes to slide open and was met by the sight of Mrs Tyler, meticulously placing glass on the vanity.

There were also roses.

An entire bundle, little more than a dozen stems, dark crimson radiating the sweet scent. He blinked to see if he had been mistaken at first, but as his mind grew enough in clarity that he was able to push himself upright on the bed, he captured Mrs Tyler's attention, with a wary eye set on the roses.

"Good morning, Mr Fell," she greeted when she saw him. Her hand gave featherlight strokes over the softest looking petals.

"Mrs Tyler, good morning. Why do you have flowers?" His voice was hoarse from sleep, and it was only then that he noted that was his first proper night's rest in about three days.

"Mr Crowley has ordered some flowers from the grounds to be brought here, sir."

"Does he not have any space to put them in _his_ rooms?"

Mrs Tyler stared grimly, lips pursed and grave. "No, sir. He does _not."_

She turned away and was out of the room in a moment's notice.

When she had gone, Aziraphale left the bed, and on shaky legs he crossed the room to pluck out one rose, brushing the petals to his nose, breathing in a comforting scent.

*******

He went down to dine for lunch, but found that he was all alone. He did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved, unsure if he was willing to face either Crowley or Newton so soon after his failure. He had not the vigour, nor the heart to engage anyone readily into conversation. He released a bitter laugh. What would the people of Tadfield make of their _angel_ now? So grim and odious, all semblance of liveliness lost. 

The book had been his _one_ goal, and though he had never been entirely certain that it would come into his possession, to be rejected with so pointed an affront, so evident an attempt at incivility, did not make any reconciliations with his wounded pride. He simply wished to understand. He and Agnes had been getting on, and at times she had even seemed to be warming up to him. They had never had a moment of dispute, since their first meeting. Aziraphale had been the most capable assistant and most joyful listener. It was a case which puzzled him exceedingly! When hardly anyone could have found fault in him, such as to reach a point that he had been dubbed (rather undeservedly, he felt) an _angel_. It made not a shred of sense, and now it appeared that Agnes was avoiding him entirely.

He only wanted a direct word, one pointed answer—a _proper_ rejection—that he may be allowed to move on.

Sighing, he took his place on the dining-table, and on reaching for the selection of food, a strip of gold silk ribbon, situated by his elbow, caught his eye.

Opened but untouched, there lay by his seat a box of decadent-looking chocolates.

*******

He brought the box of chocolates with him out of the dining-parlour, eager to perhaps spend the day moping in the book-room, the melting of the bitter treats set to alleviate, at least, a fraction of his sorrow. But he had not gotten very far into the corridor when he ran into Newton.

"Ah, Mr Fell! It is good to see you out and about today," said he, and he followed Aziraphale's steady steps into the book-room. "I trust you like the chocolates?"

Aziraphale raised a brow. "I do." 

"What might you say to a stroll this afternoon?"

His response was a dubious look. "Where does one take a stroll around here?"

"We can go to the park," suggested Newton.

"No, I do not much like the bustle of Hyde Park," said Aziraphale. "It is very different to my constitutionals in Tadfield."

"I actually had some place else in mind."

Aziraphale smiled kindly. "Newton, you are a very good friend. I know what it is that you are trying to do, but I assure you that I will be fine on my own."

"What? How-how do you mean? I am not attempting anything."

"You are," returned Aziraphale pointedly. "You _and_ Crowley. He has sent me flowers this morning, and you have given the chocolates. And now this. My child, I am not as ecstatic as I used to be, but I _am_ on the path to recovery. You need not coddle me like this, and do tell Crowley that as well. He has done more than enough on my expense."

Newton appeared drawn for a moment, but he bounced back to a pleading look. "All right! Fine, fine. I confess to the truth."

Aziraphale glanced up from his book. "Now what are you talking about?"

Desperation crossed Newton's features, a shaky smile gracing his face. Then, in bursts of excitement, he spoke: "The truth—the, uh, very truth of the matter, Mr Fell, is that there is to be an illumination at Vauxhall this evening, and I am-I really am most eager to see it! But it would be so dreadful going alone, without anyone to talk to, and I figured it might interest you."

"An illumination?" Aziraphale _was_ interested. And by now, Newton's pleading expression had gone so far as to resemble young Adam's when he would request for more of Aziraphale's biscuits. He sighed. "All right, then. Since you so badly want to go. I will accompany you to this event."

Immeasurable relief flooded Newton's face. "Yes!" He trotted off across the room, readying himself to leave, when at the last moment he halted and called back out: "Oh, and I'll send James up to get you ready. Please do not dismiss him this time."

*******

Down the criss-crossing pathways of Vauxhall Gardens, as he exchanged silly stories and many bouts of laughter with Newton, Aziraphale found that he very much enjoyed himself. The air was clean, a stark contrast from the darkened fog which enveloped the city. A patch of decorated forest, serving as the heart of beauty. They had travelled some distance greater than usual, but it was all worth it. The pathways weren't always clear, as several others were also in attendance, for much the same purpose as their own. But Aziraphale did not mind the crowd. In them, he saw people of all backgrounds, mingling and vibrant with mobility, as though the structured walls which would have kept them apart in the middle of London had toppled and fallen from the pleasure and serenity of the lively environs. It did not matter who they were. And as the sun finished setting and the lamps were lit from all directions, dotting the hedges and lampposts, some along lines hung high above in the skies, Aziraphale found that the place was infinitely lovelier in the dark of the night.

"Dear Newton, you do surprise me. I thank you very much for taking me here," said he, smiling earnestly. "I feel as if my troubles have been carried away. Jolly good idea this was. And you must visit me in Tadfield, should you ever find yourself in the vicinity."

"Of course, Mr Fell."

Aziraphale could now own that he did miss his old place, and with that in mind, it was much easier to come to terms with the fact that he would be returning to it soon.

"If this is to be my last memory from this trip, then I shall be quite satisfied," declared he, though a lacklustre bearing struck his chest. Indeed, he would not so much mind if this quiet evening in the beautiful gardens were to be his last moment of beauty and wonder before returning to his home, only he could not but feel a pang of sadness, a sense of something missing.

 _Crowley_ , his forlorn heart resigned to admitting.

He dearly wished that Crowley were with him, sharing this beautiful moment, giving vibrance to the memory that he would eventually cling to for the years to come. But he could not allow himself to complain. He had shared far too many sweet memories with Crowley already—more, at least, than he knew he was entitled to. To be seeking more was to encourage only his greed and vanity. And in that respect, perhaps it was for the best that Crowley was _not_ here. 

"Why do you say this will be your last memory?" Asked Newton, while they made their way towards what appeared to be a looming pavilion, glowing at the pillars with more lights.

"Crowley has found his proposal book, and I suppose my own deal with Agnes has come to an unfavourable end," replied Aziraphale, sighing. "There is not much point to me staying now. Perhaps I will wait a day longer to see whether Agnes will respond to my letter, but beyond that, I think, it is best for me to go back to my own place."

"And that place is Tadfield?"

"What other possibility can there be?" 

"You have never considered staying in London?"

"Dear me, what is all this about?" Aziraphale laughed. "Oh, do excuse me. I forget that you did not grow up in Tadfield. What you see right now, this is not me. I am not an impeccably-dressed, wealthy thing of beauty, going to dinners with nobles and taking walks with people of fashion."

"Then what are you?"

"I own a bookshop," he replied simply.

Newton gave a thoughtful look. "Mr Fell, I do not think a taste of _tonnish_ lifestyle to be quite enough to change even an ounce of your person. Yes, you may dress differently and move in different social circles, but you are still the exact same person."

Aziraphale did not expect such a remark, and found that he was at a loss as to how to reply.

"And most of all," resumed Newton, as he led them into a set of tables and chairs strewn about a lit up two-tiered open pavilion. "You seem very happy here."

An orchestra group was setting up from within the pavilion, and Aziraphale expected that he would be led to an empty table. Instead, Newton led him into one that already had a single figure occupying one of the seats.

The figure stood up when they approached.

"Aziraphale."

His breathing hitched in his throat, a violent thrum steadying in his chest. _"Crowley."_

He was dressed marvelously, burgundy silk lining his neck and a tight-fitting evening coat enveloping his slim build. His hair was let out into loose curls, wavy flecks hugging his ears, scraping his defined jaw. His eyes held a softness, a hint of uncertainty, while he gestured for Aziraphale to take one of the vacant seats, and Aziraphale found it a struggle to catch his breath even as all the strenuous activity he did was to sit down.

Newton, who now had a look of utter satisfaction plastered to his grin, took the seat on his other side.

"So glad that you could make it," said Crowley, just as the orchestra began to play a melodic tune.

"Well, to be frank, I only agreed to go because Newton wanted so badly to see the illumination," Aziraphale said lightly. 

Crowley glanced over at his secretary with an amused glint. "But the illumination isn't until next week."

Newton let out a string of unintelligible noises.

"Is it now? Well, _botheration!"_ He rose from his seat as though it had been on fire. "I will get us some refreshments!"

Aziraphale had no idea how to conduct himself. Mere minutes ago, he had been wishing for Crowley's presence, but now that he was actually here, there was a faint urge to draw away from the beautiful moment. He knew that in his trodden, defeated state, to be presented more with Crowley's handsomeness and charms would only bring to him more pain. And yet, the selfish portion of himself, the one that had always felt the claim to Crowley's heart, relished in the moment and screamed at him not to let it slip past his fingers. So he stayed put, shooting kind looks over at Crowley when he could, and making feeble attempts not to flush when he felt the eyes of his love to be lingering more on himself than on the performance.

After some time, Aziraphale allowed himself to feel relaxed, light and joyful laughter slipping past his lips. 

"This is all very kind of you," remarked he, and Crowley regarded him earnestly. "The two of you going quite out of your way merely because I was in a foul mood. I do not know how I have come to deserve such good friends. You have conspired to plan this entire day, have not you?"

The corner of Crowley's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Newton returned with a server to bring refreshments, as well as some slices of cold ham. The three sat in companionable silence, in the sweet air of the garden, while the sounds of orchestra music—as well as the steady chatter from the occupants of neighbouring tables—rung out to curl around their chests.

About a half-hour later, the music swelled to a stop, signaling a moment's reprieve for the performing group. By now, the skies had gone pitch-black, but the grounds were lit up more than adequately, and the scent of flowers was amplified with the dimming of sight. Newton rose from his seat once again.

"It appears that I have enjoyed myself too much," he said. "I am now late for my plans."

"You are leaving?" Aziraphale asked.

"I had not planned on staying this long. Take care, Mr Fell, and I hope to see you again before you are off to Tadfield."

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale replied faintly. "Have a good evening, then, Newton."

"See you around," said Crowley, his tone strangely clipped.

He swallowed a lump in his throat when Newton's retreating form disappeared from view. He and Crowley were left alone. As it appeared, though, it was becoming very late. They must also leave now if they were to be back at Berkeley Square for their own meal.

Crowley stood from his seat, and Aziraphale took it as a sign to do the same. 

"Back to the house, then," said Aziraphale, more to fill the silence. "I assume you brought your carriage?"

Crowley laid the lightest touch to his elbow, pressing scorching heat through the layers of fabric. Aziraphale almost gasped at the sensation.

Crowley's face was faintly coloured, and his gaze implored Aziraphale in a look that the latter had never before seen.

"Actually, I..." Crowley paused and licked his lips. "I reserved us a supper-box. If... If you would be inclined to join me."

Aziraphale was starting to feel that he had somehow been transplanted into another world, but Crowley's look was so utterly _soft_. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to swim in the pools of his eyes, to caress the strands of copper hair with his bare hand, to once again feel the smoothness of Crowley's skin melt to the brush of his lips. Needless to say, whatever other request Crowley might have made at that moment, Aziraphale would not have had the power to deny him anything.

"Please." He was startled by the pleading in his tone. No doubt it now mirrored in his expression, for Crowley's eyes went slightly wider. "Do lead the way, my dear."

Emboldened by the growing rush of the most selfish portion of his heart, he stepped into Crowley's space, tucking his hand into the crook of his elbow.

The sincerest of smiles formed on Crowley's lips, and it was shockingly beautiful.

*******

They took their supper on a quiet balcony, not quite as high as the string of lights above the ground, but enough to glean a vantage point of the spread of gardens below, surrounding the beacon that was the lit pavilion—within which, the orchestra resumed their performance.

The meals were heartily consumed, and it was the most intimate experience, even out in the open air. In the balcony, up above the ground, there was a space that had been carved for just the two of them. The warmth of steady conversation, the currents of familiarity now weaving easily between them, came naturally into existence. And where previously there had been a heart sunk in the lowest of spirits, Aziraphale now felt a glowing revival—the beats of a stirring affection, so strong that it overcame him completely. 

And, as he looked across the table at the one object of his deepest love, he could think of no conclusion better suited to the dream that he had lived in, over the past couple of weeks.

After their meal, Aziraphale stood to lean over the banister, looking down at the garden.

In this little box, where they had carved their own space.

In this little box, where Aziraphale had gotten to know—however temporarily—how it felt to freely be with Crowley, moments before he was to attach himself to another, be whisked away from him forever.

Aziraphale would, in all likelihood, never again love with such a fierceness. He would always, _always_ belong to Crowley. And that was all right.

Harmonious strings swelled in increasing measure, filling in the comfortable silence.

"Aziraphale."

Crowley had come to stand beside him, their sides only a scant space apart. Aziraphale wanted to be closer to him; desired to curl _into_ him. So strongly. So desperately. With all his heart. 

Instead, he placed both his palms resolutely on the banister, and learned to be content.

"Have you ever thought of maybe staying here?" Crowley asked.

For a moment, he allowed himself to consider it, but the idea was waved off just as quickly.

He shook his head.

From now on, London must always remind him of Crowley. His heart, though schooled, would not be able to bear it.

"I belong in Tadfield," he replied, a hint of sadness to his tone. "Though, of course, I may have to return for a short while next month to complete the job for the Dowlings, but I do not expect it to go any further than that. I enjoyed myself very much here, and I thank you, Crowley, for showing me a life beyond what I could have had. But there is no place for me here."

 _My place is with you,_ screamed the selfish portion of his heart. _Only you would not have me._

When he faced Crowley again, he was struck by the crumbling of his expression. It tore at his heart. He wanted to take him into his arms, to soothe all his worries, whisper words of comfort. 

_What has saddened you so? What odious creature dared to come close to you, tainted your perfection? Let me take it away. Let me, let me, let me..._

Then, something shifted in Crowley's look. He was... resigned.

He held out a hand towards Aziraphale. 

"Dance with me?"

Aziraphale did not hesitate when he took the offered hand. _Crowley's_ hand. 

They held each other close, hands clasped to one side, while Aziraphale clutched his other hand to Crowley's shoulder. In a delightful echo of that sweeping motion from the dinner-party, Crowley's arm came to wind around his back.

And together, they stepped into an uncoordinated form of waltz, without so much as a scruple as to how they ought to move. They were closer than they'd ever been, breaths grazing the other's face as they spun in slow circles, clinging to each other, following the swelling music all the way from the orchestra. In this little space, carved just for them.

But not enough happiness, not enough contentment, not enough gratitude—not _enough_ of _anything_ could keep the growing ache in Aziraphale's chest at bay. Unable to bear looking at Crowley, he closed his eyes, focusing on other sensations—a mistake that became apparent only when it proved to amplify the aching. 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley whispered, softly. There was so much in there, left unspoken. For all the words they'd already exchanged, for all the monumental conversations they have had, there was an equal amount still left unexposed. "What is wrong? Please, please tell me. You look very unhappy."

Aziraphale slid his eyelids open, the hand curled on Crowley's shoulder moving to cup his jaw.

"I am deeply sorry," he mumbled, and captured Crowley’s mouth with his own.

Their lips stayed still for only a second, pressed firmly. The softest of sighs slipped out from Aziraphale, and he puckered his mouth, daring to take the plush bottom lip and caress it in between his own. Crowley was frozen, entirely still. When the moment of weakness passed, Aziraphale forced himself to pull away, feeling in his lids the beginnings of hot tears of shame.

With both hands pressed to Crowley's chest, Aziraphale pushed away, ducking his face to the ground. A sliver of space opened between them, ready to form a chasm, but was halted by a strong pair of arms locking behind his back, keeping him firmly pressed to Crowley's chest.

Aziraphale let out a panicked squeak. "Crowley, I'm—"

With a deep growl, Crowley's hand wound into his hair, cradling his head, and he was being pulled back in, back into the heat of Crowley's urgent mouth.

Aziraphale released a soft whimper, kissing him just as fervently. Crowley's lips slid over his decisively, their mouths performing a dance more coordinated than their little waltz mere moments ago. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Until their breaths went ragged and their hands had explored every inch of the other's chest, caressed every patch of skin. Aziraphale wanted to sob with happiness. He was kissing Crowley. Crowley was kissing him. Crowley _wanted_ him. He would always, _always_ be content. 

He burst into tears.

Crowley pulled back, pressing their foreheads together, and his panicked eyes roamed over the tears streaking paths down Aziraphale's cheeks. He brushed them away with his thumbs, his voice soft and comforting still. "Angel. My angel, tell me what's wrong."

A sob held back his first attempt at speech. He went for a whisper instead, his eyes pleading. Pleading for Crowley to understand. "I never wish to part from you."

Crowley looked stunned, but Aziraphale kept on, even as more sobs slipped past his self-control.

"I know you cannot marry me, but I dearly wish you would. I love you. I am in agony. You are bound to another, but I know you are bound to me. You will _always_ be bound to me, Crowley."

Crowley stood still, shocked. "Aziraphale." Crowley kissed him, lingering a moment. "Aziraphale. My angel. My love." Crowley kissed him again, for a longer while. "Everything, all of it, was for you. _Is_ for you. Please, you have to know. I brought you here to show you, only I was not sure... I did not want you to be unhappy."

“What?”

“Why do you think I brought you to London in the first place?”

Aziraphale stood confused. “But going to London was _my_ idea.”

“I was obviously leading you into suggesting it!” Crowley whispered urgently. “I could not be so evident with my intentions or you would have rejected me promptly. But I… I was not sure, and when I met with Agnes, she—”

“You met with Agnes?”

A flicker of guilt passed through his expression. “I came to see her after you told me she’d sold her book. It… It seems she did not wish to speak with you, but she was willing to speak with me. And I was… I was confused. I did not know what she meant, and then you told me you did not want to stay in London, that your home will always be Tadfield, and so I grew even more confused because it seems she has got everything wrong—”

"Crowley, please! I do not understand anything that you are saying.”

Crowley's hand slid into the pocket of his waistcoat, and when he retrieved it, it came with a small piece of paper.

"I went to see Agnes," said Crowley, firmly. "And she gave me this."

Puzzled, Aziraphale took it in his hands, poring over the words.

_'One shalle come like ray of sunne, of kind words made,_

_but the item he seeks shal befeall_

_one of ten thousand supreme,_

_for he is to make a lover's waepon.'_

"A prophecy?" Aziraphale said, breathlessly.

"So she said," returned Crowley. "But I did not believe it."

Aziraphale took a moment to parse out the meaning. "Am I to assume that the first line refers to myself?"

Crowley nodded.

"One of ten thousand supreme..." continued Aziraphale. He glanced at Crowley, and it came to him. "A noble, or one who is tied to a noble. That is why she asked _you,_ that day of our first meeting." 

Again, Crowley nodded. "I couldn't... I did not want to assume. For all I know, the prophecy could have been referring to any other noble. I had to doubt it, Aziraphale, for I did not want to tie you down into a prediction if it isn't... if _I_ am not what you want." 

Aziraphale slid a hand to cup his cheek. "You are the _only_ one that I want. Always."

Crowley's eyes went wide with disbelief.

And at long last, it clicked.

"Crowley," he said, glancing up and bringing their faces together. Daring to hope, as only one so madly in love could do so. "Did Agnes sell the book to _you?"_

His answer came quickly. "No she did not. It had already been sold to another person by the time I had come to see her."

All hopes seemed to crumble away, and Aziraphale glared at the prophecy, deciding that it no longer held any of his interest.

"But it says that the _item_ I seek shall befall _you."_ The hope was attempting to trickle back in his tone, but he tamped it down. "Then, should you not have it in your possession? If she knew who you were, then why did she not sell you the book? I do not understand!"

More sobs threatened to escape him, and Crowley held a steadying hand to his back, rubbing soothing circles over his coat.

"I have given that some thought as well. And that is why I did not believe it. It made no sense, but... From what you told me just now, Aziraphale, I must ask. I really have to ask: Is the _Tales_ really what you are seeking? Or are you seeking something else? Something you refuse to tell me?"

Aziraphale faltered, hesitating for a moment. But in the end, this was Crowley, and Crowley was all he could love, all he could trust so completely.

"Crowley, what do you think it is that I seek?"

A faint flush spread over his cheeks. "I dare not hope, but... it is all out in the open now, so I suppose I must..." he took a deep breath, pressed a small kiss to Aziraphale's forehead and murmured into his skin: "Are you perhaps, seeking a home?"

Aziraphale trembled, grateful for the support of Crowley's arms. "What made you say so?" He said, breathlessly.

Crowley pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes.

"Agnes has not sold me her book," Crowley reiterated, slowly and clearly. Then, closing his eyes, he continued: "She sold me her _bookshop."_

  
  
  


*******

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! It's out in the open. Only one chapter left!
> 
> Thank you so so much for waiting on each update! And to those who have just discovered this story, I hope you're enjoying <3 Do let me know what you think now that these two idiots have finally gotten their shit together 😂


	11. April and May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone reading this!! We're finally on the last chapter. I had so much fun writing this thing and it was a fun little exercise on how to bend Regency customs to the Good Omens will haha every single feedback was a joy and I am so grateful and I really really appreciate it <3

It took a long moment for Crowley's statement to click into place. Then, Aziraphale let out the most astonished gasp.

"You... _bought_ the bookshop?" 

Crowley went entirely red, from his neck up to the tips of his ears. It looked as though he did not wish to speak, or that he was frightened to do so, but Aziraphale was desperate. "Why have you done that?"

In response, Crowley took one of his hands, bringing it up to the side of his face. In a motion that looked surprisingly shy, his long fingers moved down to hook into the edge of his glove and hiked up the fabric, exposing Aziraphale's wrist to the cool breeze, followed by heat from the soft press of Crowley's lips.

Aziraphale released a stuttered breath, utterly transfixed.

"This is yours, Aziraphale. All this time, it has always been yours." Crowley spoke in a hushed whisper; an attempt to not startle him. The fingers wrapped around his wrist began to move inside his glove, up to trail a hot path to his palm. "I have not loved anyone else, as I love you."

Aziraphale wanted to sob with joy, to fall right into his arms, only a smidge of doubt remained in his chest.

"Then why have you brought me all the way here, in the guise of helping you propose to another?"

Crowley looked stricken, a hint of shame emanating from the way he drew in his brows. 

"Would you have said yes, if I had proposed to you back in Tadfield, the day I got back from Somerset?"

The day in question seemed like an eternity ago, but Aziraphale's reply was easy.

"Yes."

Crowley was stunned.

"But," resumed he, "I would not have understood why you had done it, and I am not sure if I would have loved you, or been certain that I was in love with you, particularly compared to how very strongly and surely I love you _now."_

Crowley's lips stretched into a wide smile. "See, that is partly why," said he, his fingers kneading silently into Aziraphale's palm. "I wanted to be certain that you weren't entering into an engagement for the wrong reasons, or at least, without knowing in full what you would be getting yourself into. So I devised a ruse—and before you give me snuff, I must remind you now that I have only ever said that I was to propose to _someone,_ and have never implied that that someone could not be _you_ \--to get you here, live in-in what I hope would be our future home, and acclimate you into it. To ascertain that, even if you could not love me, you might at least love the life that you could have with me, with what I can give you, if you will allow me."

Aziraphale was hit by a pang of ache, in sympathizing now with the broken look on his love. He did not ever want to see that expression again. His free hand, the one not held in Crowley's grasp, slid up to his neck, and pulled him down into another fiercely-driven kiss that Crowley was all too happy to receive.

"Crowley," he said, once they had pulled back, nuzzling his cheek. "I have only enjoyed myself because you were with me. I've learned to love London _because_ of you—never, my love, in spite of it. You see this place and these people for what they are, all their flaws, and though you like to make sport of them, you fit in. You enjoy it."

"Never did I enjoy it as much as I do now, when you are here." Burying his face into Aziraphale's shoulder, he pleaded brokenly: _"Please_ stay. Stay with me. Never have I been truly happy before now. You can have the bookshop, and I can see you very happy there, once you have made the place your own. _Please_. I want you by my side. Want to see you every day, want you to be the first thing I see every morning. You have given me your love, and I only ask for a little more: that I may have it in full, now and for always."

Aziraphale laughed. "This is utterly ridiculous," said he, and more tears spilled down his cheeks. "I have never heard of a-a _courtship_ of this absurdity."

"At least you know I am never to bore you," replied Crowley, in a faint echo of his usual snark. 

"I told you I do not like surprises!"

"You seem to be _very_ receptive right now." Crowley's hand on his back drew dangerously down, grazing the swell of his backside, and even through the many _many_ layers of fabric, Aziraphale flushed something fierce. 

"Foul _fiend,"_ he admonished, without malice. He kissed the corner of Crowley's mouth. "But you are a fiend who has my heart—given in full and without hesitation."

Crowley bit his lip, though it did not do much to hold back the grin swelling up his cheeks. 

"Angel." He leaned in for another kiss.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, tipping up his chin and smiling. "Oh, I do so love it when you call me that." He received the chaste kiss without faltering his smile.

 _"Everyone_ calls you that."

"I do not much care for everyone else.” He coyly ran his hands through Crowley's hair. "I am _your_ angel. Pray do not deny it. You have said so, just a few moments ago."

Crowley turned flustered. "It was—that just sort of... slipped out."

"Hmm." He rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, and he breathed in the comforting scent that nestled in there. "Say it again, dearest one."

Crowley drew in a shuddering breath, tightening his hold around Aziraphale.

"My angel," said Crowley, chuckling lightly. "I look forward to spending the rest of my life with you."

"As do I, my love." Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, drawing him into a full hug. Into his shoulder, he let out a long sigh, and for the first time in his life, finally he was entirely content.

*******

Having just undertaken the most ridiculously drawn-out and convoluted dance of courtship, Aziraphale and Crowley could not bear to wait much longer for their nuptials, and in only a couple of days they set off back to Tadfield, this time with Newton's company, to formally announce their engagement. 

The author wished here to pronounce them to be receiving the best of felicitations, and the most good-natured regards from all who knew them but, alas, it could not be done. For instead they proved to be the most vexatious of happy couples, unable to stand even some distance apart, always immersed in the other's existence and, when inevitably the need to part did arise, counted down the moments until they were to see each other again. In summary they became, to anyone other than themselves, utterly insufferable.

They had been two hours into their journey, with the newly-attached couple sitting on one side, sneaking glances and brushing hands. Poor young Newton, who sat on the other bench with his back to the driver, had to endure the sight of it all in full.

It had been nothing but amiable for the most part, but for the occasional bumpy roadblock, when Crowley threw a pointed glance at his secretary and casually remarked: "Newton, do you not think it a fine weather we have today?"

Newton peered out through the windows and replied: "I could not say for certain, sir. It is not particularly bad, but we have certainly seen better."

"No, it is the pinnacle of perfection. Not a cloud in sight."

After a moment of thought, Newton nodded, much too eagerly.

"Oh, I do think you are right! In fact, I would like to enjoy it much more." His hand came up to the carriage roof and he rapped his knuckles, pounding loudly until they came to a halt.

Aziraphale flashed him a worried look. "My child, it seems awfully cold for you to be riding in the box!"

"Not to worry, Mr Fell, I am wearing two coats." Newton gave a gleeful smile and flicked his hand in a wave before opening the doors and stepping out. Through a narrow panel of glass, Aziraphale and Crowley saw Newton climb up into the box to seat himself beside the coachman, and when they both had settled, their journey resumed.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonished him. "He will get a cold like this!"

Crowley's response was a slick and hearty grin, leaning over to crowd him into the seat.

"He has two coats," said he, mere moments before seizing Aziraphale's mouth with his own.

Aziraphale let out a deeply pleasant moan, parting his lips directly in deference to Crowley's nimble tongue. Crowley's hands roamed impatiently over his sides, sliding down to clutch his waist. 

"Oh, _Crowley."_

One of his hands came under Aziraphale's knee, hiking it up and over to rest between Crowley's thighs in a far too tangled embrace. The carriage jumped and jostled, as it was wont to do, and Aziraphale held tight with his arms around Crowley's neck to keep from sliding off his seat.

"Crowley, dearest, _oh,_ we mustn't," cried Aziraphale while Crowley mouthed over the sensitive skin of his jaw, pulled down his cravat to nibble his chin and lick the exposed skin of his neck. Aziraphale fell apart in gasps and moans, fingers digging into Crowley's back. "Dear _god,_ Crowley. It was already too great a chore for us to get out of bed this morning."

"Through no fault of my own," replied Crowley, moving to suck on his earlobe. Aziraphale released a startled whimper. "You are an utter temptation. I am not one to easily let go of what is mine, and you have made the gravest error in binding yourself to me."

Aziraphale flushed, inwardly very pleased. "You've been in the company of people who are masters of flummery, my love. You are quite beginning to excel in it yourself."

Crowley snarled into his chin, nipping lightly. "I do not do _flummery,_ angel. How dare you insinuate that I would ingratiate myself with you through anything other than the truth? And you are well aware of how attractive you are, you minx."

Aziraphale turned his head, catching him into a deep kiss, where they lingered for a long moment.

"As are you," Aziraphale whispered, brimming with, he felt, all the love in the world. "You are enchanting, dearest one. I have always found it a struggle to tear my eyes off of you."

Crowley's face went faintly red, and Aziraphale decided that the colour on him was most becoming. 

"I cannot wait to marry you," said Crowley, in a way that made it seem as though he were confessing a grave secret. "Must you really stay home tonight? Cannot I take you back to the estate?"

Aziraphale moved a hand to his face, fingers playing with the finely-shaped lower lip that he had grown so fond of. "My love, you know that there is a lot for me to do in the old bookshop. And a serious matter I'll need to discuss with Anathema."

Crowley made a stubborn pout, and Aziraphale decided that was most becoming on him as well.

"Fine." He leaned in to kiss Aziraphale again. "Then we should make up for all the time we will miss out on. Don’t you agree?"

Aziraphale giggled, wrapping his arms around his neck. "Oh, most willingly."

*******

In fear of startling Anathema beyond measure, Aziraphale insisted on being dropped off by the carriage a small distance away from Hog's Lane. Crowley protested for a moment, but Aziraphale was quick to remind him that this was his home turf, and the streets of Tadfield were far less dangerous than those he'd roamed in Soho. Reluctantly, Crowley agreed to let him go, and with a quick kiss to his fiancé and a hearty handshake with Newton, Aziraphale turned to walk the familiar steps to his bookshop, savouring every detail. He would not be making this same journey for much longer.

Anathema was instantly there to greet him upon his arrival, thoroughly bemused as she regarded him. "You look _very_ different."

Aziraphale reddened, walking past her to gesture towards the backroom. "I have much to tell you."

"Oh?" she placed her hands on her hips but followed him. "Stubborn Mr Fell now has plenty of exciting stories to share. What could you have possibly done that would surprise me?"

Aziraphale barely managed to suppress a beam. "Anthony Crowley and I are engaged. To be married."

Anathema went still, her face breaking out into a generous smile as she tackled him into a hug. "By _god,_ I am so happy for you!"

"Thank you, dear," said he, returning the hug with a rush of affection.

 _"Happy,_ sir, not surprised," she quipped. "I do not think anyone who has already seen the two of you would be surprised. But you must tell me _how_ it happened. What did he do to finally reel you in?"

"Nothing much. He did not do anything that was outside of his usual strange actions, now that I think of it," said Aziraphale. 

"Then what has changed?"

"I realised that I am very much hopelessly in love with him," he replied, giddily. "Oh, Anathema. It cannot be described at all. He is a splendid creature in multiple respects. I love him _so_ much. And I am the luckiest creature for being loved so much in return."

"You simply must tell me all about it. Spare no detail."

Over tea, they discussed the whole thing. Aziraphale told her of the encounters with Agnes, the dinner at Grosvenor Square, and the affairs at Vauxhall which led to the actual proposal. When at last, he had gotten to the part where Crowley had confessed to buying him the bookshop in Soho, he turned grave.

"So, Anathema, I am afraid that... I will not be around here much longer."

To his surprise, she was unfazed. "And very good on you as well! You won't have nip-cheese Sandalphon hounding on you anymore. You are finally getting the place you deserve. Your _own_ bookshop."

"But what will happen to you?"

"Do not worry so much about that," she said. "I will be fine."

Aziraphale gave a grateful smile. "I suppose _I_ cannot charm you into moving to London with me, can I?" 

Anathema tapped her chin in deep thought. "Now there is an idea," said she, laughing. "If you would not mind it. I think there's a lot more that I can do over there."

"You would do it? You would transplant yourself to London?" Aziraphale drew her into another hug.

"Oi!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I will think about it, all right?"

"Yes, yes. Of course." Aziraphale returned to his own seat.

"Look at you, _engaged_ to _Anthony Crowley,"_ she remarked, with a waggling tease of her brows. "It was not many weeks ago when you had that whole spiel about how he would never marry you, for his wealth and superior upbringing. Whatever happened to all that?"

The teasing remark was a splash of cold water to Aziraphale's thoroughly besotted wits. 

"Oh dear! He is to send for me tomorrow to meet with his mother!"

The smile vanished from her face. "Have I reminded you of something unpleasant? I thought you'd gotten over that already!"

"No, I had not!" He stood on wobbly feet, walking to open a window and inhaling huge breaths of fresh air.

"Mr Fell, please. I am sure it will be fine. Lady Eliza isn't at all unpleasant. I mean, we've met her before on numerous occasions."

"But-but that is different!" Aziraphale retorted. "When she met me, it was always as the amiable charming bookseller. And anyone decent could be kind to a local shopkeeper! Now she is going to think I have snatched her well-breeched son into my sharp claws, or-or that I _seduced_ him somehow!"

"Sir, relax. It will be fine. Trust me, no one who has ever seen the two of you in the same room could ever doubt your being very much in love. And Lady Eliza would be a fool not to see it herself. And even if she does disapprove of you, I doubt Crowley would let that stop him from marrying you anyway."

"No, I suppose you're right..." Aziraphale admitted. Then, he gasped. "But Anathema, she would _disown_ him!"

*******

A carriage was sent over to Hog's Lane to take Aziraphale to the estate the following night. Crowley could hardly keep still while he waited, pacing the long length of the corridors in his private apartments. When at long last a footman appeared at his door to announce the presence of Mr Aziraphale Fell in the main drawing-room, he released a breath, checked his appearance one last time, and anxiously bounded down the stair-steps until he reached the ground floor.

The doors to the drawing-room were opened to him, and slammed shut when he'd gotten inside. Aziraphale's plump figure stood by the fire, his back turned to him. Even partially obscured, the sight lifted a weight off of Crowley's shoulders.

Crowley approached him from behind, letting out an openly gleeful smile.

"Angel."

At once, Aziraphale turned to face him. His face, partially aglow from the firelight, was heavily distraught.

"Crowley, you know I love you, but we _must_ call off the engagement!"

Crowley paused where he stood, laying a hand on his cocked hip. "Thought you'd at least stay for supper first."

"I am perfectly serious!" Aziraphale drew nearer, wringing his hands down his front. "What if she disapproves of the match?"

Crowley grinned. "Then I will marry you anyway."

"That is exactly what I was afraid you'd say! My mother was _disowned_ for marrying a bookseller. You cannot do this for me, Crowley. Do not throw yourself away. I won't allow you!"

Ignoring blatantly his raised protest, Crowley rushed over and collected him in his arms. Aziraphale was stiff in his hold, but Crowley was undeterred. He pressed fluttering kisses to his chin and below his ear, blowing softly and peppering more kisses until Aziraphale could not but giggle and shiver delightfully. 

"Crowley..."

"There is nothing to worry you, my angel. Nothing at all," he hushed, sweeping his lips to Aziraphale's cheek. "My mother is an exceptional woman, and not half as high in the instep as you think. She has been greatly looking forward to meeting you again, since I told her of our engagement."

He pulled back to meet his gaze. Aziraphale relaxed, shoulders sagging as he sank into the embrace. Crowley drew him into another kiss, and he did not quit kissing him until all the tension had left his body.

"I love you, dearest. More than anything, I _love_ you."

*******

By the time that they had all sat down for supper, Aziraphale had allowed himself to laugh at how ridiculous he'd been. Crowley never left his side the entire time, and had introduced him to Lady Eliza with a voice so proud that it had filled Aziraphale's heart. 

The food was delightful, of course, but for once that did not take up the chief of Aziraphale's focus. Crowley sat to his left, remarkably handsome, and as he looked around the grand dining hall that he had only been to on few occasions before, as a guest, he could hardly believe that it would one day become his home.

"I must thank you, Aziraphale, for finally settling my son," said Lady Eliza. "He has been a major cause of my migraines, going about as he does. I'll be much composed when you two are settled at Berkeley Square."

Aziraphale flushed, thoroughly unexpecting the praise. "Oh, I promise to keep a close eye on him, your ladyship."

"It isn't as if I am an unwilling prisoner," replied Crowley. "I've no need to go around as much now, as a married man."

Lady Eliza raised her brows. "You had _better_ be at your most willing. I have had to witness you dangle after Aziraphale for years! It is about time you collected your bacon-wits, and if you make him unhappy I will be _very_ cross."

Crowley choked on some meat that had been halfway to being consumed. Aziraphale flushed beet red.

"N-now, Ma'am, I am sure—"

Crowley slammed a hand to the table. "You _knew?"_

Lady Eliza threw an arch look. "Darling, all of Tadfield knows. You've been rather terrible if you have been trying to conceal it."

Newton, who had been seated across the table the entire time, sniggered into his drink. In a small act of consolation, Aziraphale laid a supportive hand to his fiancé's thigh. Crowley could only groan in embarrassment.

She turned towards Aziraphale, and her smile turned softer in an instant. "You are to be married by special licence, of course."

The conversation for the rest of the affair turned right to business, and for the most part it was Lady Eliza speaking with Newton Pulsifer regarding the amount of property to be transferred to them on their marriage, the house in Berkeley Square the first to be bequeathed, along with a rather hefty sum. But Aziraphale did not care much for the details. He had never asked for much in his life, though there was a part of him, the part which he thought to be where his mother continued to live on, that felt the greatest satisfaction in being restored to a rightful place.

And a greater portion of him, the one belonging to himself and (by extension) to Crowley, could only look upon his love, and revel in the deeply blossoming waves of affection, in high anticipation of the life that awaited them.

*******

They were married within a month, much to the relief of all of Tadfield's residents. The wedding-breakfast was a grand affair, held at the Crowleys' estate, and with all the village in attendance to extend their congratulations to the happy, and extremely handsome, couple.

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale whispered to his husband while they strolled down the dining hall, Aziraphale clinging to his arm. "This is adorable. I had no idea how much they were all rooting for you."

Crowley scowled. "That-that is not true. Not _all_ of them were—"

He was cut off by the appearance of a vibrantly-dressed Madame Tracy, who came to them and eagerly shook their hands until they felt they would soon fall off. Her eyes were wet, having been openly sobbing since an hour prior to the ceremony.

"Congratulations to you, dear boys!" Turning to Crowley, she added: "We have all been watching you make a fool of yourself over Mr Fell, and entertaining as it has been, I think we can all agree that this is a far better arrangement."

Crowley only gave a grunt in response. Aziraphale ran an affectionate hand over his arm, beaming brightly. "I agree, ma'am. I am also very relieved that we have done away with all pretence. And you know I am just as much in love with him."

Madame Tracy kept her smile tight. "Of course."

Aziraphale raised his brows, challenging. "It is true, I assure you." Why did it look as though she did not believe it?

"Yes, dear! Positively _redolent_ with April and May, you two are," she exclaimed, and very swiftly took her leave.

Aziraphale nudged his husband. "Do not let them sway you, my darling. You know how madly in love with you I am, even if they do not see all of it."

Crowley's mouth lifted into a sharp grin. "Oh?"

He nodded. "And if it weren't for all these people, I would absolutely be ravishing you right now. You are frustratingly handsome in this suit."

"Hm, I do not think it wise to be getting me in a mood in the middle of our wedding-breakfast."

"I know, dearest," agreed Aziraphale, running coy fingers up his husband's sleeve. "And I am particularly saving a lot for the honeymoon."

Crowley's hand twitched against his thigh.

"You are a bastard," said he, laughing softly, and Aziraphale had to wonder how he had gotten so fortunate as to secure himself so wonderful a partner. "I love you, my angel. My love. My _husband."_

Aziraphale was giddy with joyous affection. "I love you, too. My dearest, darling husband."

And it went on rather well from there, if the fair author must profess. Within the same hour, the newly wed couple met with Newton and Anathema, and found that they, too, had gotten engaged, and would soon be moving to London. Aziraphale, though wondering how such an arrangement could have been conceived without his notice—or even _how long ago_ it had been conceived--was won over by the urge to be happy for his dearest friends. It was also settled, then, that Anathema would continue to work for him in his new beloved bookshop in Soho.

Down the hall and being the only one who seemed not to share in the merriment, Mr Sandalphon sulked over his plate. Aziraphale had paid him the remaining due of his leasehold in full, and was now in the process of transporting all his books to Crowley's estate, where they would be settled until they were transplanted to what would become their new home bookshop in Soho. No one could be more embittered than his former landlord, in fully knowing that there would hardly be anyone to replace Aziraphale as a tenant in this small, little-known town.

The festivities came to an end with Aziraphale and Crowley stepping into their newly-purchased cabriolet, to be waved off by their dearest family and friends as they journeyed to honeymoon by the seaside, in a quaint cottage in Lyme Regis that found mutual satisfaction to both their tastes.

None of them ever really saw or heard from Agnes Nutter after this, not even Anathema. But it could only be assumed that after gaining a handsome sum from selling her shop, that she retired a very wealthy spinster. She did not, however, forget the part that she had played in the lives of a certain handsome couple.

On arriving back in Berkeley Square, where they would build their home and the beginning of the rest of their lives together, Aziraphale and Crowley were handed a note, written in the familiar hand of a certain prophetic ex-bookseller, containing a short message that congratulated them on the commencement of their happy nuptials and, enclosed in the parcel with it, a copy of the _Tales._

  
  


\--END--

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there any of you hardcore Jane Austen fans here, I give you a fun little challenge to spot all the little Austen references all over this chapter hehe <3


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